The Nearest Kin of Gods
by Mornen
Summary: A tale of the House of Finwë in modern day America told from the perspectives of Maedhros, Maglor, and Fingon. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

This story is set before the release of Melkor, before lies were spread among the Noldor completely dividing the House of Finwë.

* * *

><p><em>Maitimo<em>

The road stretches out before us, cramped with rumbling cars that flash in the sunlight and make the ground beneath us tremble. Smoke billows up behind them and rests heavily on the cold air, making us cough through the scratchy scarves we wear high over our faces. The air is bitingly cold, and the strong wind cuts at my eyes as I hurry along the cracked sidewalk, Findekáno pressed tightly against me for warmth. His thin body feels lost in the great blue coat that I wrapped securely about him before we set out. He turns to look up at me, his large grey-blue eyes brimming with tears drawn out by the cold and the dirt. 'Maitimo,' he says, his voice muffled by his scarf and the infernal din of the traffic. 'I'm freezing.'

'I know,' I whisper through the ridiculous fuzzy purple hat he wears low over his ears, 'but that is just the way it is here.'

I hold him closer now, letting him lean his head against my shoulder, and circle my arms around him and shove my bare hands deep into his pockets, a luxury my own coat lacks. Our hands meet in the semi-warmth of the woollen folds and clasp tightly in defiance of the winter.

The buildings about us are slowly changing from the scattered colours of painted wooden and vinyl sidings to a solid block of dusty brick. Old, dead vines cling to their sides and the wind whips at them frantically, howling at their eaves. The sinking sun shines on the bricks, turning them a warm gold, and bare trees cast twisted, dancing shadows with their searching branches.

'What store are we looking for?' Findekáno mumbles against my shoulder when we stop at a corner under an unlit streetlamp, leaning for a moment against its green metal post.

'The health food store,' I say, 'we need yeast.'

)()()()()()()()()(

The store is a warm refuge after the December evening. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe in the warmth along with the scents of spices and baked goods. Pulling my scarf off my face and rubbing my cheek where it still itches, I look around for the yeast. I have not been here before, and the neat rows of goods and large, abstract paintings hanging on the white walls seem very daunting.

'It should be with the refrigerated items,' says Findekáno briskly, taking my hand. He has adjusted to this world better than I have, but perhaps that is because he is younger.

I follow him to the refrigerated isle and shiver, half with cold, half with disappointment after the lovely warmth.

'Should we get the small bag or the large one?' my cousin asks me, holding the door cruelly open.

'The large one,' I say, 'our families eat a lot of bread.'

He picks up the one-pound bag and closes the door gently. 'Is there anything else that we need?'

'Father said that he needed cinnamon,' I answer, ducking under a low hanging sign on my way to the bulk spices. Findekáno trails easily after me, tossing the bag of yeast up and down casually. I have long enjoyed teasing him about his height (he doesn't even reach my nose) but here he has the advantage. He stands by my side as I ask the wrinkled woman behind the counter for the cinnamon, searching the names of the spices with curiosity. The woman hands me a small plastic bag of the fragrant spice, and I thank her quickly. She gives a curt nod and turns away.

'Is that all that we need?' asks Findekáno, heading towards the checkout.

'I think so.'

We stand in line behind a woman in a green coat who is talking to the cashier about a particular cheese she is purchasing. I pass the time reading the labels on the chocolates placed carefully so that hungry, tired customers will have to stare at them and wonder about the rich, sweet or bitter bars that lie underneath the coloured wrappers. Findekáno's gaze meets mine, and he frowns sadly. I sigh and give him a small smile as the woman in green collects her bags and heads out to the harsh winter day.

'Chilly day, isn't it?' says the cashier cheerfully, picking up the two bags my cousin sets down on the counter.

'It be freezing,' Findekáno informs her, and she chuckles as she glances out the front window to where the wind is buffeting the pedestrians and trying to rip the clothes off their bodies.

She continues to chuckle as she checks the bags and punches the prices onto the cash register.

Findekáno fumbles with his wallet when she tells him the price, and she looks up towards the ceiling, almost as if she is embarrassed to watch him handle money. He hands her a bill, smoothing it briefly between his fingers before she takes it and begins to count out his change. He tucks the wallet back into his front pocket and rubs the denim over it as she places the plastic bags into a paper bag.

She hands him the bag with an amiable smile, and he takes it with a nod.

'Have a good day!' she calls to us before turning her attention to her next customer as we step out into the biting evening.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Do you have the yeast?' Anairë asks the moment we step through the battered front door of the two-story house our three families share.

'I have it right here,' Findekáno says, pulling the bag out and handing it to her before even taking his coat off.

'Thank-you, dear,' she says, taking it from him. Her face clouds with a frown. 'Findekáno, your hands are freezing!' she exclaims, shoving the bag under her arm and taking his hands between her slim fingers.

'It's cold out, Mum,' he says, kissing her cheek.

'You should wear gloves when it gets this cold,' she scolds gently; 'that is what they are for.'

'I forgot,' he says with an embarrassed smile.

'Ah, you forgot.' She rolls her eyes, and her gaze falls on me. 'I suppose you forgot too?'

'I gave my gloves to Pityo,' I tell her whilst I hang up my coat amidst the sea of coats dominating the entranceway. 'He lost his at school.'

She takes my hands in hers and rubs them tenderly. 'We will have to buy another pair. It is much too cold to run about without proper clothing.'

I nod my agreement, and she shakes her head in concern before gliding away towards the kitchen.

Findekáno turns from hanging his outer clothes up and shoves the bag at me. 'Your cinnamon, my friend,' he says, and I take it from him and follow Anairë into the kitchen.

My uncle, Ñolofinwë, is bending over the open oven where a large roast is cooking. The pungent scent encircles the room, and I stop for a moment to close my eyes and take a deep breath of it. The kitchen is bustling with activity, and Arafinwë nearly slams into me with an armload of plates.

'Pardon me,' he says, somehow managing to peck my cheek as he slides around me and out into the dining room.

'It is entirely my…' I begin, but do not bother to finish since he has already disappeared.

With care I cross the wide, light boards of the wooden floor and put the cinnamon away into the spice cabinet fastened securely to one of the pale orange walls.

'Gracious, Kano, be careful with that!' Ñolo calls, and I turn to see my brother balancing an exceptionally large teakettle on the edge of the counter.

He shoves it onto a potholder and wipes the dark strands of hair falling over his face back with a swift hand. Ñolo touches his shoulders from behind, and Makalaurë turns to him with a grateful smile.

'Maitimo, come here a moment.' It is my mother, and I walk quickly over to her where she stands beside the kitchen table with my aunts, preparing the bread. Ambarto is pressed tightly against her side, his red hair tied back in a loose braid. She strokes his head as she speaks to me. 'Would you go check on Arakáno? He is upstairs in his room; Anairë left him sleeping, but he has probably woken up by now, and we don't want him coming down those steep stairs all by himself.'

'Yes, Mother, of course,' I answer with a quick bow.

She smiles at me and briefly strokes my shoulder.

'Thank-you, Maitimo,' Anairë says almost guiltily, and Eärwen beams at me, her sea green eyes shining. Her silver hair is pinned up messily on the top of her head, and a long streak of flour runs down her right cheek.

'Ah, but he loves to care for Arakáno,' she says knowingly.

'That I do,' I answer.

* * *

><p>Quenya name translations (nicknames are in quotation marks) and relative ages translated to human years (also known as the years they are pretending to be in order to disguise):<p>

Fëanáro – Fëanor (40)

Nerdanel – Nerdanel (42)

Maitimo /'Russandol', 'Nelyo', 'Timo' – Maedhros (21)

Makalaurë / 'Kano' – Maglor (20)

Tyelkormo / 'Turko' – Celegorm (19)

Carnistir / 'Moryo' – Caranthir (17)

Curufinwë / 'Curvo' – Curufin (13)

Ambarussa / 'Pityo' – Amrod (8)

Ambarto, Ambarussa/ 'Telvo' – Amras (8)

* * *

><p>Ñolofinwë  'Ñolo' – Fingolfin (38)

Anairë – Anairë (38)

Findekáno / 'Finde' – Fingon (16)

Turukáno / 'Turu' – Turgon (14)

Irissë – Aredhel (3)

Arakáno – Argon (1)

* * *

><p>Arafinwë  'Aro' – Finarfin (35)

Eärwen – Eärwen (36)

Findaráto – Finrod (14)

Artaher – Orodreth (12)

Angaráto – Angrod (6)

Aikanáro – Aegnor (5)

Artanis / Nerwen – Galadriel (3)

* * *

><p>Amarië – Amarië (14)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

_Maitimo _

I stop by the living room to see if Findekáno wants to join me in my visit, but he is pinned to the sofa by Aikanáro.

'I utterly hate and despise school,' Aikanáro is telling him firmly, his eyes flashing dangerously.

'Whatever for?' Findekáno asks, running his hand through the boy's short hair, and Aikanáro licks his lips thoughtfully.

'Because they all hate me there,' he decides, burying his face against Findekáno's neck, trying to push the blue turtleneck down with his nose.

'They can't all hate you,' Findekáno reasons, sounding very fatherly and kind.

'They do,' Aikanáro insists.

'How could they?'

'They do!' He shoves his face hard against our cousin's neck with a very determined grunt.

Findekáno looks up at me hopelessly, and I shrug my pity and head back to the hall.

The stairwell is dark already, and, as usual, the hall light is not working. I make my way carefully up the steep steps and creep down the narrow hallway. It is eerily quiet, but I can make out the scratches of pencils on paper indicating that my younger relatives are quite busy with their homework.

Ñolofinwë and Anairë's room is at the end of the hall, right across from Arafinwë and Eärwen's room. The door is closed, and I turn the knob carefully. The hinges squeak loudly as I push the door open.

I wait a moment before saying anything, looking around their room with interest. It is not often that I come here, and the room smells musty in a strangely inviting way. It is very small, and their bed takes up most of it. It is a simple iron-framed bed with a dark blue coverlet, wrinkled terribly. Their clothes are kept in a bulky dresser painted a faded, peeling white that is shoved against a windowless wall. The rest of the room is empty except for the stacks of books and papers that march along the bottom of the left wall. The bluish light of a streetlamp lights the room, casting strange shadows through the lace curtains onto the creamy, floral walls.

'Arakáno?' I whisper, taking a step forward.

'Yes?' comes the answer.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and look down at Arakáno, who is curled up in the middle of it, the blankets clutched in his tiny fists and tucked under his chin.

'Have you been sleeping?'

'Yes.' He yawns. 'I had a wonderful dream.'

'What was it?' I ask, lying down beside him and looking into his huge dark grey eyes.

'I dreamt that we were back in Aman,' he says, edging up to me and pressing his nose against mine.

'What was it like?' I ask him, twisting my fingers through his hair.

He blinks at me and a shy smile spreads over his face. 'It was beautiful.'

'It was.'

Arakáno was born here. In the first tumultuous months after our arrival to this strange world, Anairë delivered him under the light of the quivering stars. He has not seen the light of Aman, but still he says always that he dreams of it. I wonder if he does, and if he can even begin to imagine the beauty and splendour of our lost home.

A hand touches my shoulder, and I look up to see Makalaurë bending over us. He sinks down next to us and slides his arms around my neck from behind, his lips whispering quiet notes into my hair. He smells like ink and almonds, and his breath is warm and tickles my ear.

I rub his arm gently, and he draws closer to me, looking down at Arakáno over my shoulder.

'Hey, baby,' he sings softly.

Arakáno draws the blankets up to his nose and flutters his lashes at us.

Makalaurë and I break into laughter together. His laugh is deep and musical, rolling like the playful waves that break, sparkling, on the white shore. Mine is higher and rises in sweeps like leaves dancing on a forgetful wind. Arakáno joins us, his giggles quick and uncertain; he watches us to see if he should be laughing.

I push Makalaurë away from me gently and gather Arakáno up into my arms. Makalaurë kisses him tenderly, and he curls up comfortably against my chest. My brother laughs again and turns to making the bed.

I carry Arakáno into the bathroom so that he can use the little plastic potty that Anairë got him. When he is done, I lift him up to the sink, and he washes his hands.

The moment we get downstairs, Arakáno wriggles away from me and scurries off to the kitchen to see his parents. I step into the living room to see if Findekáno has freed himself from Aikanáro yet.

Aikanáro is no longer in the room, and Findekáno is reading a history book to himself, his eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he taps his finger thoughtfully against his teeth. Beside him on the sofa sits Artanis, who is scratching at the collar of the fuzzy white jumper she has on. Beside her sits Tyelkormo, who is carefully filing his nails and muttering something about the bitterness of life.

I plop down onto the lumpy armchair my entire family seems to have chosen as their arch enemy and glare menacingly down at the little faded blue flowers intertwined so merrily with stained yellow roses. Since that does me no good, I quickly stop and look at the clock, wondering if dinner will ever be ready. It is 6:00 p.m., and I am very hungry.

Findaráto is sitting across from me in the recliner, the most coveted chair in the house. His copper hair sticks out like a flame against the dark blue fabric, and he gives me a slight smile as I adjust uncomfortably on my seat. I give him a quick glare, and he looks innocently back down at the magazine he is holding.

Ambarussa climbs suddenly onto the armrest of my chair and drops mischievously onto my lap.

'_It is an evil Ambarussa_,' he says in a low, supposedly threatening voice before unceremoniously attacking my neck with harmless bites, growling fitfully the whole time.

'Not now, Ambarussa,' I groan, holding his wriggling body away from me. 'I do not feel like wrestling.'

He pouts and tosses his head indignantly, widening his eyes at me pleadingly.

I kiss him gently and put him down. 'Why do you not play with Tyelkormo?'

Tyelkormo looks up with a sigh. 'I can't. I am too depressed.'

'What happened?' asks Artanis, looking up at him with great interest.

'It's none of your business,' Tyelkormo scowls.

Artanis looks very hurt and disappointed. 'I only wanted to help.'

'It is something you would not understand,' Tyelkormo says and turns back to his nails angrily.

With a sigh, I lift Ambarussa back onto my lap and cuddle him gently, drawing him up into my arms like a little baby. He looks up at me hopefully, and I nod my consent. His eyes light up, and he attacks my neck with renewed vigour. I tackle him back, twisting him up and tickling his feet so he shrieks with laughter.

'The evil Ambarussa is no match for the _evil Nelyo_!' I cry, standing up and swinging him upside down by the legs.

Artanis is looking up at me with great interest and excitement, and I know that she wishes she were the one being swung. Ambarussa is practically screaming with laughter, and I grin as I snatch him back into my arms and nibble on his toes.

Findekáno closes his book and stands up, nodding towards the doorway.

I turn my head.

Artaher is standing there, smiling at us in bewilderment. 'Dinner is ready,' he says quietly.

I give Ambarussa one last nip on the ear before we make out way into the dining room, which is crowded as it normally is and echoes with the clamour of our three families.

'What happened, Turko?' I ask my brother as we wait in line for Arafinwë to ladle us our meal.

He looks at me as if he would rather not speak about it, but shrugs and says, 'It's…well…I…' He breaks off and looks down at his feet. 'Why do you want to know?'

'Turko, I'm your brother. I do not want you to be upset about something, and telling someone will help.'

He looks over at Artanis who is taking a roll from the basket her mother is holding and trying not to look like a conniving, little eavesdropper.

'I'll tell you after dinner,' he says.

I take my food and move to the table, cramming Findekáno, Makalaurë, and myself onto two wooden chairs that wobble at the same time in conflicting directions. The roast is perfectly spiced, and drips with aromatic oil and curling golden onions that catch the light like amber where they lie softly over the browned potatoes.

I lift a forkful to my lips and blow on it just as my father sits down at the table across from Findekáno, drawing Curufinwë up onto his lap.

My father's hair is caught back in a tight braid, but a few black strands have worked their way free and are falling across his sharp face in a tangle that he blows at with impatience, shifting Curufinwë in his arms. My little brother turns around and smoothes them into place gently.

'There you go, Father,' he says.

I did not often sit on my father's lap when I was his age, but Curufinwë insists on it, clinging to Father as if his very life depended on it. He also has the excuse that there are not enough chairs for all of us. He picks up his glass of milk and takes a long sip of it, watching me deviously from over the rim.

My father's sharp eyes watch Ñolofinwë, who is fidgeting on his seat, Irissë held fast in his strong arms. She twists around unexpectedly to look up at him, and he momentarily loses his natural poise and spills some milk onto the table. With a critical raise of his eyebrows, my father leans over gracefully and dabs at the spill with his napkin. Ñolofinwë's cheeks burn as he mutters his thanks.

)()()()()()()()()(

Dinner is over, and Makalaurë is trying to find away to get up without knocking us all over. Of course, it is futile, and Findekáno, he, and I are forced to stand up together. Unfortunately, our timing is a little off, and our two chairs fall over, clattering noisily as they hit the floor. My father gives us a rather chiding look, and Ñolofinwë hides his amusement behind his napkin. I quickly bend down and pull them back up, straightening them precisely and trying to look as if nothing of the sort had ever happened.

Makalaurë ducks away into the kitchen and soon returns with a platter of frosted almond cookies. He sets them on the table, and I snatch up a couple and my empty milk glass and nod towards Tyelkormo.

With a sigh, Tyelkormo gets up and follows me into the kitchen, where I refill my glass.

'Do you want some?' I ask, offering him the jug, but he shakes his head, looking down at the floor as he shifts from one foot to the other. I shove it back into the refrigerator and close the door. 'What is it?'

'I would rather talk in private,' he says. 'Can we go to your room?'

We walk silently up to the attic. It is a large room that seems to remain perpetually dark, no matter how many lights we put in it. Mattresses, clothing, books, and loose sheets of music are scattered across the wooden floor, and the walls are plastered with posters and photographs arranged in a rather haphazard fashion. I sit down on one of the mattresses and place my food on a nearby book. Tyelkormo sits down cross-legged opposite me and twists his hair about his finger, looking past me at a photograph of Amarië that Findaráto took in July.

I fold my hands under my chin and take a deep breath. 'All right, Tyelkormo, what is it?'

He sighs and swallows hard, picking up a record lying beside him. He stares at it numbly for a few moments before turning to face me. 'There's this girl I have been seeing. I like her a lot, she's really funny and playful, but I think that she is falling in love with me. The thing is, I am not in love with her. Not anyways near it, in fact. She is a good friend to me, but I think that she wants me to be her lover, and I don't want that, but I don't want to loose her,' he gushes out at once, nearly incoherently, before falling into a brooding silence.

'Are you certain that you are not falling in love with her?' I ask quickly.

He nods. 'I am certain. She is not…my type.'

I have a vague feeling that means she is not beautiful enough to catch his eye in a romantic way, so I nod silently.

'Tyelkormo,' I say finally, 'I think that you should continue your friendship the way that it has been going, and, if she does not want that, there is not much that you can do. Of course, you could always be wrong.'

He shrugs and gives me half a smile. 'I suppose so.' He stands up. 'Well, I have to take Huan out. Good night, Russandol.'

'Good night, Turko,' I answer.

)()()()()()()()()(

My bed is warm as I slide down under the covers next to Makalaurë. He turns around when I touch his back and smiles at me in the semi-darkness. He yawns slightly and stretches against me, tucking his head under my chin. He is humming a quiet lullaby, and I let myself sink into the peace of the moment.

''Timo?'

'Mmm?' I turn my head a little to look at Findekáno, who is lying on his mattress tangled up with Angaráto and Aikanáro. Their golden hair is gleaming madly against his dark tresses where the moonlight slips in through the window.

'Have you finished your research paper yet?'

'What?'

'The research paper that we are supposed to do for English, have you finished it?'

'No, Finde, I haven't.'

'Oh.' He smiles slightly. 'Neither have I.'

'I've finished,' Makalaurë sings without breaking his melody.

I draw him back into my arms and give him a squeeze to express my annoyance. 'Of course you have,' I whisper.

He smiles ever so slightly as he turns his face away, and I draw the blankets up to my chin and listen to my brother's song, the gentle breathing of my cousins, and the omnipresent rumble of cars in the distance.


	3. Chapter 3

_Maitimo _

Makalaurë is curled up tightly beside me when I awake. His face is pressed against my shoulder, and I can feel his breath on my skin. His dark, silky hair is falling in a tangle over his face, and I brush it off gently and push him gingerly away from me. He whimpers softly and turns over, wrapping his arms about a lump of wayward blankets.

I slide carefully off the mattress. Picking up my clothes, I make my way silently across the floor and open the trapdoor, letting down the retractable ladder.

Findaráto is already awake, whispering words that I cannot make out. He looks up at me as I creep by and mouths a 'good morning'.

I nod and pull my clothes on and climb down the ladder, which creaks horribly, and make my way to the bathroom. Already the house is awake, and I can hear the clatter of dishes and Arafinwë's singing in the kitchen beneath me. The door to my left opens abruptly, nearly slamming into me, and I jump aside as Amarië walks out, leading Irissë and Artanis by the hands.

'I am sorry,' she says.

'It is all right,' I answer, nodding towards them. 'Good morning, Amarië, Irissë, Artanis.'

'Good morning,' the little girls chime together too hastily, as if they were having a completion as to who could answer me first.

'Good morning, Maitimo,' Amarië says afterwards, and, with a couple more bows, we part. The girls hurry down the steps, and I continue down the hall to the bathroom.

The door is shut, and the shower is running. But with twenty-three people in one house, I find that the two bathrooms are perpetually occupied. I knock on the door, for there is a good chance I will be let in anyways.

'Who is it?' Carnistir calls over the shower.

'Maitimo,' I answer.

I hear a click, as the lock is undone.

'Come in.'

I pull the door open and step in. The black tiles are wet and cold under my bare feet.

'Good morning, Maitimo,' says Tyelkormo, sticking his head, shampoo lathered in his hair, out from behind the curtain.

'Morning, Turko,' I grumble.

His head disappears. I hear him have a brief squabble with Carnistir about the conditioner, and, by the time I am washing my hands, Carnistir is stepping out from the shower and wrapping himself, shivering, in a towel.

'Do you know what we are having for breakfast?' he asks.

'No,' I answer, 'I just got up.'

He nods and pulls on his underpants.

There is a loud knock on the door just at the moment a small timer goes off. 'Your time is up. Turn the shower off,' my father calls through the door.

Tyelkormo groans as he complies. He steps out and roughly grabs the towel from Carnistir. Carnistir glares at him and jerks the rest of his clothes on and walks out, leaving the door ajar.

'_Carnistir_,' Tyelkormo growls after him, shutting the door hard. He turns to me. 'I don't know why I got stuck with him as a shower mate.'

I shrug. 'He's your brother, and he's close to your age.'

He sniffs as if he finds that inadequate reasoning for the torment that he has to endure, and begins to dress himself.

'It is an efficient system,' I continue, 'and it had to be done. There are too many people in this house for us all to take separate showers.'

He rolls his eyes when he thinks I am not looking and buttons his cardigan to his neck. He pulls on the same pair of ripped jeans that he seems to wear every day, and plaits his still wet hair into a tight braid. Frowning into the mirror, he rubs an invisible spot on his cheek before striding out the door. He nearly bumps into Findekáno, and they mutter quick and superficial apologies as they pass without touching.

Findekáno crosses to the sink and splashes cold water onto his face, shivering in his blue nightshirt. He draws the cold droplets down his neck and rubs his hands across his white cheeks until pink splotches creep onto his high cheekbones. Teeth chattering, he picks up a facecloth and blots his skin dry.

He notices me staring at him and turns to me. 'What is it, 'Timo?'

Silently, I turn the hot water on, run my fingers under the faucet, and reach up and touch his skin with my damp hand. He looks up at me and laughs lightly, shaking his head so that his hair falls over his face.

'It wakes me up,' he says, leaning back against the sink. 'It is self-torture, but it wakes me up.'

'Finde,' I say, cupping his face in my hand and tucking his long hair back behind his ears, as I often did when he was but a child, 'I worry about you.'

This only makes him laugh again, and he pulls away from me. 'I have to go dress,' he says.

)()()()()()()()()(

Ambarussa catch up with me at the bottom of the stairs, and leech on to me as tightly as they can.

'Father says that it is Thanksgiving tomorrow,' says one set of soft salmon lips as the other kisses my cheek a 'good morning.'

'That is the Americans harvest celebration,' says the one who kissed me.

'We were learning about it in school. They made us make turkeys from paper, and they were awful.'

'But the teacher liked them and hung them up on the wall, and ours were the best.'

'But she did not say so. She tries to be so impartial, but she really likes us and thinks that we are…'

'Cute,' they conclude together, wrinkling their noses in half-hearted irritation.

'That is nice, Ambarussa,' I say, simply because I cannot remember half of what they said, they talked so fast.

I step into the kitchen, the twins still latched onto my sides, and seize a couple of warm lemon muffins from where they are left, steaming, on the counter.

'Have you eaten?' I ask them, and they shake their heads, so I pick up four more muffins, drop them all onto a plate, and drag the twins out of the crowded room before they get in someone's way.

I bring them into the living room. The sunlight is peeping in gently through the partly opened curtains, and it shines brightly on the dark floorboards and falls in splotches over the sofa where Amarië and Findaráto are sitting, entwined in each other's arms. They break their kiss when I enter, and I give them an apparent frown of disapproval that I find somehow becomes a grin.

'When are you getting married?' I ask, settling down on the floor with my breakfast.

'Oh, I don't know,' says Findaráto, 'Father says that we are still too young.' He holds Amarië's hand in his lovingly and kisses it. She turns to him and draws him close again for a kiss so slow and tender that I have to turn my face away. They smile at one another, and Findaráto slides his arm around her waist, his other hand twisting through her hair. 'What do you think?'

'You certainly do not act too young,' I answer, 'but I think that you should listen to your father. He certainly knows more about marriage than I do.'

Findaráto nods almost sadly, and they begin to whisper together plans for the future.

I turn back to my breakfast, breaking the warm muffin slowly between my fingers.

'Maitimo,' says my father from behind me. His voice sounds grave and, when I turn to face him, I can see that he looks upset. 'I have to talk to you.'

I take my muffins with me out to the backyard and eat them as my father paces anxiously on the frosty grass. I know innately that I should not speak, so I remain silent and watch him. His body is tense with suppressed emotions; his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his shoulder, and I can see that the muscles on his arms are taut. His fists are clenched. He turns suddenly on me, reaching me in two strides, and tilts my face down.

'Do you know where Curvo is?' he asks.

I shake my head. 'I have not seen him since last night.'

'He is always running off somewhere,' my father says. 'And I do not know where he goes. He makes nothing of it.' He draws a breath of the cold air in sharply and lets it out slowly through gritted teeth.

'Do you want me to look for him?' I ask, taking his hands in mine.

His fingers are tight with worry and are so hot that they feel as if they could melt my skin. I look into his eyes, grey and deep, which flash with an inner fire that I often see in my own, so bright it frightens me. But his fire is more brilliant than mine; the light of the morning sun seems dim in comparison to the light in his eyes. 'Thank-you,' he says. 'I do not know what has gotten into him.'

I do not tell him that Curufinwë's problem is that he has been spoiled all his life and scarcely knows how to take 'no' for an answer. My father will not want to hear that. I just shake my head and head inside to get my coat.

I encounter Findekáno in the hallway.

'What troubles you?' he asks, reading my face in an instant. He places his hand on my shoulder.

'Curufinwë is missing again,' I tell him. 'I am going out to look for him.' I lift my coat off its hook and pull it on, not bothering to button it.

'I am coming with you,' he says, grabbing his coat and hurrying after me.

Even as we step out the door, I spot Curufinwë walking nonchalantly into the driveway, his arms folded and his head high in the November wind. His hair is streaming behind him, flashing black madly.

I rush towards him. 'Curufinwë,' I snap, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him inside. 'Where have you been? Father was worried.' I touch his cheek. 'Why are you not wearing your coat?'

He shrugs my hand off and frowns at me. 'What does it matter to you?' he asks haughtily.

'Curvo!' My father exclaims half in joy and half in anger as he hurries into the hall and gathers his favourite son into his arms.

Curufinwë presses himself against Father and kisses his cheek. 'I love you,' he whispers into his ear.

My father frowns now. 'Do you? Well then, you are going to tell me exactly where you went and what you did. Do you understand?' Curufinwë looks down disappointedly as Father carries him away for interrogation, but I know even now that Curufinwë will tell him little, if anything at all. He has his secrets.

Findekáno takes my hand and squeezes it. 'It is not your fault,' he whispers, for it is only Findekáno who would have known the secret blame that I lay on myself for all my brother's failings. It is useless to tell him that I know that, so I just lay my cheek against his hair and let him comfort me with a song.


	4. Chapter 4

_Maitimo _

It is early afternoon, and I am in the kitchen, trying to get today's work done. The room is hot, and my hands are slick with butter. I rub them impatiently against my dirty apron and turn to a pile of carrots I have to peel and chop.

The radio is letting out a mournful tune about honesty, and Makalaurë sings along as he stirs the cranberry sauce he is cooking. The words sound strange coming from my brother. '_Honesty is such a lonely word; everyone is so untrue._'

Carnistir looks up from snapping green beans. 'Whatever do you mean, Kano? Who here has ever heard of someone being untrue?'

Makalaurë turns to him sadly. 'It is a song written by one of this world about this world. Here, they are untrue.' He blows on the spoonful of shining red liquid that he is holding and takes a careful sip. 'It needs more sugar.'

Carnistir nibbles thoughtfully on a green bean as he muses this over. His brows are drawn together, and his lip is pulled downwards in a crooked frown. He opens his mouth but sees that Makalaurë is not waiting for an answer and instead crunches down angrily on another green bean.

'Is the radio bothering anyone?' asks Tyelkormo, who had turned it on.

'It is bothering me,' says Turukáno, who is peeling potatoes with a perpetually irritated expression across his fair face.

With an almost careless grace Tyelkormo turns it off and continues across the kitchen to the pantry.

Makalaurë breaks into another song, one he wrote about the bliss and joy of Aman, and a silence settles over the room, which was loud to the point of frustration just a moment ago. I can feel the tears forming in my eyes, and I shake my head.

'No,' says Carnistir sharply. 'I cannot bear it.'

Makalaurë stops singing, and the room becomes deadly silent.

I turn back to the carrots I am cutting, severing each long orange root swiftly. They crack as I cut through them, falling away from each other into small disks that resemble tree trunks. And I wonder why it is that we can cut and severe, but we cannot heal and put back together. The carrot will never be whole again. I slice angrily at another one, shoving the pieces roughly to the other side of the cutting board, and lift up the last carrot.

'Nelyo,' calls Arafinwë from the doorway. 'Your father and I are going out. We will be back around six.' He smiles at me and disappears before I can ask him where in all Eä my father and he could possibly be going together.

I wash my hands off, my kitchen duties finished, and try to sneak up to my room without being noticed by any clingy child. I have no such luck. Irissë catches up with me the moment I step foot out the door and holds her hands up to me.

'What is it, little one?' I ask, lifting her up.

'I am bored,' she says, turning her little face up to me and widening her eyes as wide as they can possibly go.

'Why do you not play with Artanis?' I sigh, already knowing the answer.

'She does not like me.' She pouts.

'Why does she not like you?' I ask, kissing the top of her head.

She starts to answer, but is cut off by my mother, who hurries down the steps, pulling her hair off her face into a quick knot at the nape of her neck. 'Maitimo,' she says, stopping just long enough to grab her green coat and sling it over her slim shoulders. 'I have a client, could you tell Carnistir that I will take him shopping tomorrow? No, tomorrow is their holiday, I do not know if the stores are open, on Friday then.'

'Of course,' I agree as she flies out the door, closing it with a bang behind her.

Irissë tugs on my hair. 'Nelyo, I am bored,' she whines.

I lift her higher against me and look around for something for her to do. The hallway is traitorously bare. With a groan, I carry her into the living room. My eyes land on Curufinwë, who is sulking in the far corner.

'Ah!' I cry in triumph. 'You want to play with Curvo, do you not?'

Curufinwë looks up sullenly and gives Irissë a half-hearted glare. She fails to notice it and squeals with delight as I place her on Curufinwë's lap, wrapping her arms tightly about his neck.

'Hey, do not choke me!' he protests as I walk away to find a moment's peace.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Now,' my father says, looking around the room accusingly. 'What are we all thankful for?'

My father has decided that he will use today for a lesson in cultural assimilation, which he deems very important if we are to get anywhere in this world, which we must, and we thus are obliged to spend our Thanksgiving doing everything that he has read you are supposed to do on Thanksgiving in his little red book _American Holidays and Traditions. _

He holds it open now with one hand, the other wavering just above the flame of the candlestick nearest to him.

'We are going to go around the table and everyone has to tell one thing they are thankful for.' He turns his eyes on Nerdanel. 'What are you thankful for, my wife?' he asks graciously.

'For my wonderful family,' she says with a smile, encompassing the entire table in her fond gaze.

A look of slight irritation passes over my father's face, and he turns away from her. 'And you, Ñolofinwë?'

My uncle mutters something heavily sarcastic that sounds suspiciously like 'that my brother despises me', but looks up and says instead, 'For the stars in the sky.'

With a nod, my father continues. 'And you Anairë?'

He continues to go about the table like this, nodding or frowning his approval or disapproval of the things that we are thankful for. Anairë is thankful for her children, Arafinwë for music, Eärwen that we live by the sea. My father turns to me. 'And what are you thankful for, Maitimo?' he asks.

'That I am receiving an education,' I answer. My father nods his approval of my answer and turns to Makalaurë.

'Love,' says Makalaurë quietly.

My father raises his eyebrows. Tyelkormo is thankful for Huan, Findekáno for electricity, Carnistir for Ambarussa, who blush at his comment. Turukáno is thankful for his sister, Findaráto for Amarië, Amarië for Findaráto.

'No, no,' says my father. 'We must stop being thankful for _people._ It is quite uninteresting.' His lip twists stubbornly, and he looks about the table for opponents. Not finding any, he nods for the rest to continue.

Artaher is thankful for poetry, Curufinwë for his skilled hands, Ambarussa for chocolate, Ambarto for nail polish, holding up his gold nails for all to see. My father has taken to painting his nails so that he can differentiate between the twins. Unfortunately, it has led to no lack of strife, since Ambarussa finds having nails that look like metal absolutely fascinating and has been begging Father to paint his too. Now he folds his arms and looks dourly down at his full plate and mumbles that it is not fair. My father pretends not to hear and turns to Angaráto.

'And what are you thankful for?' he asks, leaning ever so slightly closer.

'For bicycles,' he says, casting a hopeful look at his father.

Arafinwë looks away and tucks a strand of his golden hair delicately behind his ear.

'I am thankful for roller blades,' says Aikanáro before my father has a chance to ask him.

'And I for this locket,' Irissë chirps, her fingers playing with a silver locket about her neck that her father gave her last Christmas.

My father's fingers drum together in exasperation, but he keeps his composure and turns to Artanis, who is looking quite glum. 'What are you thankful for?' he asks smoothly.

'That I am no longer the youngest,' she says, looking gratefully at Arakáno. He bounces excitedly in his mother's arms and slams his little fist against the table. 'I am thankful for crayons,' he sings out.

My father smiles. 'Good. I believe that we must pray next, and then we are supposed to eat.'

'But, Fëanáro,' says my mother gently. 'You did not say what you were thankful for.'

He nods gravely before saying quietly, 'I am thankful for life.'

There is a strange silence in the air after my father speaks, and, in it, I stare at the candle in front of me and watch its small flame dance with my each slow breath. The orange glow is hypnotizing, and I concentrate on it as my father offers up a prayer to Eru. His voice is strong, yet strangely frail as he speaks, making me think of the flame before me, which could so suddenly be gone. My breath shudders, and my mother squeezes my hand under the table. I turn to her, and she gives me a reassuring smile that seems somehow lost under her troubled eyes.

)()()()()()()()()(

After dinner, we are all corralled into the living room to spend the rest of the hopefully peaceful evening together. I sit down on the blue recliner and gather the twins into my arms. They lean back against me, their arms entwined about each other, and begin to whisper to each other about the excitements of the day.

Ñolofinwë hands me a glass of wine, and I take it gratefully and sip the dark, bitter liquid. He gives the twins a glass of diluted wine to share, and they take it eagerly. I drink my wine slowly, relishing each sip.

Findekáno sits down on the arm of my chair and sets his glass on my head. I look up at him, and he grins down at me. 'Cheers!'

'You are too young to be drinking wine anyway,' I tell him, brushing his glass off my head. 'It really is quite illegal.'

'I assure you,' he sniffs, hovering his glass well above his head and scrutinizing the liquid, 'that I am well above the age of twenty-one.'

'You are not supposed to be that old here,' says Anairë. 'So you must not get caught drinking.'

My father grumbles something about the foolishness of American drinking laws and lets Curufinwë take a long drink from his glass. He settles back against Father and presses his head under his chin, his arm falling down loosely by his side in relaxation as if he is preparing to fall asleep.

Fingers are tangling with my hair, and I look up to discover that it is, of course, Findekáno, who bites his lip sheepishly and tries to look innocent.

'Oh, why do you not grow up and leave me alone?' I ask him.

He shakes his head and pops a forkful of pecan pie into my mouth. I chew it carefully, savouring the roasted nuts and delicate sweetness of the gelled sugar. The crust is flaky with a rich butter flavour that overwhelms my senses for a moment.

With a chuckle, Findekáno offers me another bite. I roll my eyes at him as I take it, simply because I do not have the will power to refuse it and throw him to the floor as I should to teach him a proper lesson.

Ambarussa are looking up at the pie quite expectantly, and Findekáno gets up to go fetch them some. I hold the twins closer and take away their empty wine glass.

'I wish we could have more,' sighs Ambarto, and I do not answer him. He sighs again and looks after Findekáno hopefully. He comes back balancing three pie plates, swishing his gold-twined braids proudly.

He gives Ambarussa theirs, hands me mine, and resumes his seat on the armrest. I pinch his leg just to be wicked, and he glares down at me and swats my hand away with a smile.

Findaráto and Makalaurë, who have been whispering to each other for quite some time, now stand up and Makalaurë claps for our attention. 'We have composed a song for this occasion,' he says, 'that we will perform now, if we have your leave.'

My father bows his head, giving them his permission to proceed, and they begin their song. The words speak of our time in this world, and the melody is haunting. I draw my brothers still closer and kiss the tops of their heads. Their hair is warm and soft under my lips and smells like lavender shampoo. They squirm a little, and I loosen my embrace.

'I love you,' I whisper to them when the song ends, and they look up at me rather confused.

'I love you too,' they say at the same time, upon seeing that I am still quite sane, and kiss me with their sweet, sticky lips.

With a smile, I close my eyes and take in the beauty of the moment. The room is growing dark, and the streetlamps outside shine brightly on the fresh snow that fell just last night. The room is comfortingly warm as the fire crackles merrily in the woodstove. I feel the twins place their heads against my chest, and I wish that this time would never end.


	5. Chapter 5

_Makalaurë_

)()()()()()()()()(

I am pressed under the covers of my bed, sleep slowly overtaking me. My body is heavy with food and wine, and my mind is spinning with the beginnings of fantastic dreams. My fingers are closed upon each other, twisted together with the sheets and a small ring slipping resolutely off my finger. The room is dark save for the soft light of a table lamp that shines in a deformed circle on the ceiling.

Breaking the stillness, are Findekáno and Ñolofinwë, who are talking together. Their voices are hushed, but I can still make out what they say.

'It was a good evening,' Findekáno says as he unwinds the braids in his hair carefully, twisting gold free from the dark locks. I can see his face reflected in the mirror, pale and still. His lips are set in a soft line, and his lashes droop; he is tired. His hands tremble slightly as his fingers catch in his soft tresses and drop down, wearily, to his sides.

'Yes, but you drank too much,' his father whispers in the near dark, taking an unstable step nearer to him. He places his hands on his son's slim shoulders and draw his head back, cradling it in his arms. He leans against the straight back of the chair, his breath quick and shallow.

'As did you,' Findekáno says, pulling free of his embrace and resuming his work.

'Here, let me do that,' Ñolofinwë says. Steadying himself against the chair, he drowns his fingers in the warm depths of his son's hair. 'Findekáno, Findekáno,' he whispers, letting his name slide over his tongue like rich, melted chocolate.

Findekáno closes his eyes and rests his chin in his hands. With a soft laugh he reaches up and takes his father's hand as the last braid is undone. 'You know that I am not a child any longer,' he says, squeezing his fingers lightly.

'No?' Ñolofinwë says, but it is a question, and the answer is quite plain.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Father?' I say, sitting down beside him on the sofa. He looks busy and absent-minded, and is flipping rapidly through a stack of papers.

'Yes?' he asks without looking up, a black pen twitching restlessly between his fingers.

'Is there anything you want me to do?' I ask, drawing back a little as he turns sharply towards me and makes a firm mark on the book left open beside him.

'Such as?' He flings the pen down hard onto the book, and it bounces off and rolls away over the floor to disappear under the armchair.

'Oh, I don't know,' I say, giving a slight shrug that he obviously does not see. 'It's just that sometimes you want me to do something, but I get so busy with…'

'Blast it all,' Father mutters, running a frustrated hand through his tangled hair. He reaches around for his pen, finds that it is missing, and looks at me accusingly.

I quickly get up and retrieve it, handing it back to him before sitting down again.

He begins to scratch out hasty calculations in the book, cursing occasionally as he does so.

'But I get busy with my music, so you get upset,' I continue.

'I like your blasted music,' Father snaps, slamming the book shut with an angry sigh.

'I just wanted to know if,' I trail off, watching him.

'No, no, I don't. Go ask your mother if you want work,' he says, biting his knuckle. 'She usually has something for someone to do. Although I don't remember you being so eager for chores, aren't you usually busy with your music?' He turns his gaze suddenly on me and peers at me as if he is searching to find the very depths of my soul. His lips twitch into a crooked frown, and he reaches his hand out and draws it through my hair, pulling the strands out to flash black in the light. 'Hmm,' he sighs to himself. He drops my hair and picks the pen up, scratching away once more.

'Well, thank-you, Father,' I say, standing up, eager to get to practice.

He makes no reply, but bites the end of the pen in frustration. 'Blast it all.'

)()()()()()()()()(

Strong arms seize me from behind, startling me from the notes I am writing. I had lost myself in the world that I created with this song, and now I am rudely forced from it back into tangible reality. Without warning, I am drawn back and up, my ribs compressing in the firm grasp of my assailant.

'He, he, he,' a low voice sounds in my ear. 'It looks as if I caught the musician off guard.'

'Turko, let go of me,' I grumble, but already I know that my complaints will do me little good. Tyelkormo's grip tightens and he lifts me off the ground, carrying me over to the mattress on the floor that I share with Maitimo.

'Oh, please, no,' I beg, 'not a wrestling match, not now.'

'There is no time like the present,' he rejoins, turning me around to face him. There is a dreadfully mischievous grin on his face, and he swishes back the few loose strands of hair falling over it with an untamable gusto. 'Or are you afraid that your _little_ brother will beat you?'

I feel my eyes narrow, and my hand tightens into a fist. His challenge is accepted. 'No shoes,' I tell him, kicking at his moccasins with my stocking foot.

He looks down at my blue socks critically for a moment but pulls off his shoes and throws them carelessly across the room. With an arch of his back, he strips his shirt off. 'No shirts,' he adds.

Raising my eyebrows, I jerk my dark blue shirt out of my jeans and hastily undo the buttons. I slip it off and cast it onto Findekáno's bed; it flies through the air and lands unceremoniously on a stack of schoolbooks.

'Are you ready?' he asks me, flexing the muscles in his arms intimidatingly.

'Oh, sure,' I say, my voice cool and my eyes daring.

His eyes narrow, and he searches my face for any hint of fear. His fingers lift to his mouth for a moment, and he rubs his chin, seemingly contemplating the best plan of attack.

'Well?' I say. 'What is taking you so long?' I rub the floorboard with my toe casually and hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my pants, resting my hands on my hips.

'I was just making sure you were ready,' he replies, tilting his head this way and that as he examines me.

Hopping quickly from side to side over a joint in the floor, I watch him. My feet are moving faster than sight as I leap, but I keep my back still and straight. He fears my feet. 'I am,' I say without stopping. 'We can begin when you are ready.'

'To the death?' he asks.

A sly smile crosses my face. 'To the death.'

His arms are around my waist in an instant, and he lifts me off the ground, slinging me across his shoulder, trying to catch at my legs. I fold my body over him, kicking rapidly to keep him from grasping hold of me. My hands fight their way down his bare back, searching to grip the hard muscles. Desperately I clutch at his pants as he struggles to hold me and fling myself over his body, twisting in the air, locking my arms around his waist from behind.

With all of my strength I weave my fingers together as he tries to push them apart, clinging to his body, my legs wrapping around his. He strains hard against me, forcing my hands apart, and draws me around to his front, holding me waist-high against him.

I look up at him, and he smiles down at me, forcing me slowly onto the mattress. It gives under me, and he pulls me up so that we are facing each other. I can feel his hot breath on my face.

'Do you yield?' he asks, pinning my arms firmly underneath us.

'Never,' I answer, pressing up on him, desperately straining to roll him over. I manage to wrap my legs around his waist and squeeze him sharply. He gasps as the wind is knocked from his body, and in that moment I push up hard, forcing us both to the left. I wind up on top of him, my legs still around him. He reaches up towards me, but I grab his wrists and force them down onto the bed. My breath is coming faster now, and I strain to keep him there.

For a moment he lies still, but soon a cruel smile crosses his face, and he draws his hands back up over his head, forcefully lowering me on top of him. I resist it, but he is stronger than I am. My body is stretched out over him, and I hear him chuckle. He raises his head and rubs his hair against my neck.

'Oh, no, oh Turko, no,' I gasp as laughter rises in my throat. But he only tickles me harder. I have no choice but to release him, but it is already too late. He pushes me over now, firmly caught in his arms, and runs his fingers expertly along my sides. 'I didn't know tickling was allowed,' I shriek as he reaches down to take hold of my foot.

'You never said differently,' he retorts, drawing my leg up sharply.

I kick against him and manage to break free then spring back on him, my fingers flying to reach his underarms. He is howling with laughter in a few moments and shrinks back from me as I press on. I collapse on top of him, but he rocks back. Rolling desperately together, we fight back and forth, winning or losing in chaotic succession.

My throat is dry, and my body aches with laughter. Tyelkormo has me caught up in his arms, my body folded upon itself. I have lost both my socks, and one pant leg is pushed up to my knee. I reach a hand up to get back at him, but he holds it fast in his. I look up at him again, and his eyes are bright with joy and victory. 'Turko,' I whisper, dropping my head limply down. 'I died.'


	6. Chapter 6

_Makalaurë _

)()()()()()()()()(

I slink into the room with my head bent, just behind Maitimo, trying not to look obtrusive. A few of the other students stare at me as I walk in, and the English professor glances up to see who it is. I pull out one of the small, black plastic chairs and settle behind a desk. It is short and tiny, with a fake wooden surface that glares plastic up at me under the florescent lights. I glance around the room, which is relatively empty as usual. The walls are painted a strange yellow, scuffed with time, and the carpet is a nondescript grey. I sigh and close my eyes, pulling out my folder and running my fingers over it. They are aching with a longing to touch and to hold my harp, but the time here calls for silence. Sometimes I do not know why I bother trying to get a degree anyway.

Maitimo has already taken out his research paper and holds it up, smoothing the papers carefully. He was up all last night working on it, since he deemed it a good idea to wait to the night before to write it – simply because the English professor had told us that is what we should not do. I do not believe that I fully understand all of my brother's obstinacies. He places the paper down, looking quite proud of it and turns to me. 'I believe that I should get an A on that,' he says with a smile.

I shake my head at him, and half the other students have turned to us with looks of curiosity and irritation as they always do when we speak our own language in class. 'Why should you? That is probably a first draft, and you are not that good at English anyway.'

'I speak and write English quite well, thank-you,' he says with feigned irritation, and turns away from me.

Most of the other students have lost interest in our private conversation and have gone back to chatting with each other. I brush the folder again; the deep blue of the glossy cover is soothing to my senses, and I let the calm of it close over me.

The professor collects the papers just as class starts, and I hand him my research paper on the effects of music on the human mind. It gets lost quickly in the jumble of papers from the class, and I wonder what my grade will be. I do not feel as confident as Maitimo, even though I finished it some weeks ago and have spent the extra time looking over it, trying to pick whatever flaws remain out and throw them away, replacing them with good, correct English. But it seems hopeless sometimes, and I rest my head in my hands and try to choke back the song singeing my lips.

Maitimo has turned to Findekáno – the crazy boy who followed him to college – and is whispering something to him in a voice so low that I cannot make it out over the din of the Americans. Findekáno laughs lightly and smoothes his hair out, tucking his dark braids back behind his ears. He shakes his head, and they fall out of place. He laughs again.

The professor has turned to him and is staring without shame, confusion and curiosity on his fat, red face. The sound of laughter has made all of the other students turn to stare as well, and they watch him, some in amusement, some in surprise, one in disgust. He laughs again and smiles at them, slightly abashed, before ducking his head down, biting his lip. He looks so childish for a moment that I am struck with a vivid memory of the days when Maitimo and I used to dress him up like a doll.

The hall was crowded, and I was standing next to my mother, eavesdropping on a conversation she was having with Indis. Maitimo came up behind me, carrying a little dark haired boy in his arms. It took me a moment to recognize him as Ñolofinwë's son, and by then Maitimo had seized my hand and hauled me across the floor. I asked him where we were going, and he hushed me, leading me out of the great room. He was bouncing Findekáno in his arms, and our cousin was laughing with delight and looking thrilled.

_Maitimo brought us to a small room filled with blue curtains and beautiful toys ordered carefully in place. I followed him in, wondering how he knew the palace so well. He set Findekáno down on the white bed and looked around imperiously. I sat down next to Findekáno, and he rested his little head against my arm, trying to climb onto my lap. I pulled him into my arms and kissed the top of his head. _

'_Are we supposed to be here?' I asked Maitimo, worried as always of my father's temper and my mother's stern words. 'I thought that…'_

'_It was too noisy there,' he interrupted. 'And Ñolofinwë said that I could take Findekáno back to his room.' _

_I did not think that the words of his half-brother would be an argument my father would listen to, but Maitimo was older and wiser than me, and I was used to listening to him, so I said nothing_.

'_Isn't he cute?' he asked me, kneeling down in front of the bed and tickling Findekáno gently._

_The boy giggled, and I readily agreed with my elder brother. He took Findekáno away from me and danced him across the room, singing a little ditty. His steps were elegant and light, and I watched them mesmerized as my voice joined his involuntarily. He stopped too soon, it seemed, setting Findekáno back in my arms, looking around the room for something to do. He walked over to the wardrobe and opened it, lifting out soft, shimmering baby clothes. _

'_Look,' he said, holding them up for me. _

_I looked at them, balancing Findekáno on my legs and kissing his soft hair, which smelt delicate and sweet, like fresh violets._

'_Let's put them on him,' Maitimo said eagerly, taking the warm child away from me. He started to undress him gently, and Findekáno did not protest as he removed his clothes and put the ones he had found on him instead. _

'_Isn't he adorable?' asked Maitimo, holding him up and parading him across the room for me to admire. _

_I nodded wholeheartedly, forgetting my initial fears, and reached for Findekáno._

'You are all the tiredest-looking bunch of people I have seen in my life,' a cruel, unclear voice says, wrecking my memories.

I glance quickly over at Findekáno again, but he is sitting straight and looking diligent and intelligent, and the childish smirk is gone from his face. I sigh and close my eyes again, shutting out the ugly room. _Tyelkormo would have bitten us if we had tried anything like that on him_, I muse.

)()()()()()()()()(

My music lessons are harder than I would have ever thought. I have to learn the theory and concepts behind the songs that have been played, the different genres – some stranger than I could have ever imagined – the new notes, the new writing system, the new composers. I know nothing of these. My instructor is astounded by me; he seems to have a hard time understanding who or what I am. He has never before met a student who can sing and play as well and as beautifully as I can and who has never before heard of Beethoven.

But I freeze him with my music. He has never before heard the melodies that I play and sing. My voice, he says, is too beautiful to be real. He once asked me if I were an angel.

I now drop into my seat and pull out my music book, looking at the elegant notes I have written, praying that they will be right. My fingers shake as the instructor takes the sheet, and he looks down at it, pressing his large, red glasses back up his nose absently with one finger. His bright blue eyes narrow for a moment, but he tucks the sheet away and starts the class.

It is almost shameful how little I know, how the other students can answer questions about musicians whose names tickle my mind with their strangeness, but stir no memories or answers. I sit sullenly through class, twisting my fingers together and holding back the bitter pain that I feel. I ache for the day to be over; I ache for the safety and refuge of my room and the comfort of my harp strings.

I can feel the rhythm of the student's voices, the hum of their breath. My mind writes the notes that I learned as a child, but my hands cannot grasp the pen and jot down what I hear in their strange markings. It is a new language that I must learn. I sometimes wonder why I bother trying to get a degree.

'Makalaurë,' the instructor says. He is one of the few people I know who does not trip and stumble over name.

I look up at him. 'Yeth, thir?' My voice is softer in class than it normally is. It makes me sound timid and shy and afraid to be known.

He is standing over my desk, his long, white hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, the start of a white beard forming on his lean face. He wears his hair long, something that most men I see do not. It seems to be the custom to cut it short, and many women do so as well. But he does not appear to care for the customs of the land; he wears clothes that do not look like what anyone else wears. Today he is wearing an orange plaid coat, tan corduroy trousers, a blue shirt, and yellow sneakers. He speaks softly and slowly when he questions me. 'Have you learned the C major scale yet?'

I nod and look back down at my desk. I can hear him sigh, a sigh so quiet that it just brushes my ear, almost inaudible. I do not know why I am taking so long learning, why I refuse to grasp and understand the written music of this land. I asked Findaráto about it one day, and he said that I did not want to let go of Valinor. He said that I was afraid that if I learned their music, I would loose our music. Findaráto is very wise, but I do not want to believe him. It seems silly and immature to be that stubborn.

)()()()()()()()()(

I sit on a chair in the performing arts centre, waiting my turn to perform. This is our final for private music lessons. I know my songs well, although I am playing and singing by memory and ear, not reading the sheets of music that I have with me. I can see Findekáno and Maitimo in the audience, which is sparse.

The girl in front of me sings her song with a clear voice, wavering only on the higher notes. I smile at her as she finishes and stand up to take my place on stage.

'Name mine ith Makalaurë Fëanorian,' I say, as I am supposed to. 'I were a firth year thudent, although I thudy muthic before…on a different…country,' my voice falters for a moment. 'I thall play the piano and thinging, and I thall accompany mythelf by the harp.'

'And what will you be playing?' prods my music instructor, Eugene Coleman.

'Ah…muthic that I…wrote…it be untitled,' I answer, sitting down at the piano.

The keys feel warm underneath my fingers as I touch them gently for a moment, before lifting my hands up again. I barely glance at my hands as the melody streams from the instrument, wrapping itself like an old, comfortable blanket about me. I can feel the keys, hard and yielding, like stones or bone that many years and many fingers have worn.

While the notes linger still in the restless air, I lift my harp up and rest it against me, my fingers faithfully finding their places on the strings. The song that I have had to keep closed inside of me all day springs forth from my lips and rises, strong and clear, into the auditorium. The words are sad, and the music old.

Time has no meaning any longer.


	7. Chapter 7

_Makalaurë_

)()()()()()()()()(

'You sang beautifully,' says Findekáno as we climb into Maitimo's car. It is an old green Ford with rust on the edges, a missing headlight, worn tires, and a hideous dent on the bumper. I cannot stand the thing. It is noisy, dirty, and smelly, and I always have a dreadful feeling that we are all going to get into a crash and die. It is, however, one of the cruel necessities of this world. At least I do not have to drive.

'Thank-you,' I answer, smiling a little at him in the rear-view mirror as I buckle myself into the front passenger seat.

Findekáno nods and settles back in his seat, searching through his backpack. 'It seems strange to believe that was the last day of school,' he says conversationally.

'I am glad that it is over,' says Maitimo, turning the key in the ignition. 'I really could not stand the English instructor.' He shakes his head contemptuously and sighs.

'He was rather rude,' Findekáno agrees politely.

'Rude?' Maitimo counters. 'He was downright disagreeable!' He scrunches up his face unpleasantly and begins to scold our papers with a gruff, exaggerated imitation of the instructor's voice in plain, uncouth English.

'Ai, Maitimo!' Findekáno scolds. 'You should not use such language!'

'My professor did,' Maitimo shoots back with a quick roll of his eyes.

Our cousin folds his arms and looks quite indignant. 'You should not learn from his bad example,' he says miserably.

'Mother says that she wants us to pick up Curvo on the way home,' says Maitimo, changing the subject. 'He went to the library.'

'That's a good place for him,' I say, gritting my teeth sharply as Maitimo takes the turn onto the highway a bit too sharply. 'It should keep him out of trouble.'

'Curvo can find trouble anywhere,' Maitimo rejoins. 'And when he can't find it, he makes it.' He presses down hard on the accelerator and the car picks up alarming speed. 'Believe me, I have experience with that brat.'

'What did he do to you now?' asks Findekáno, leaning forward eagerly.

'He hacked into my e-mail account and sent a love letter to one of my professors,' says Maitimo with a scowl. 'Unfortunately, Father wouldn't let me strangle him.' He scoffs and looks quite self-righteous.

'Which professor was it?' I ask him.

'Tinlanni,' he says sourly. 'And I did not even know until he brought it up one day after class. I nearly died of embarrassment.'

'Ai,' soothes Findekáno. 'That is dreadful. Tinlanni did understand though?'

'In the end, yes. Father made Curvo write him an apology and revoked his computer privileges for a month. He was furious.'

'You two aren't about to get into another one of your who-has-the-more-annoying-siblings-or-cousins bouts are you?' I ask them warily. Those conversations of theirs I take great pains to avoid, even if I am rarely a subject of complaint and could easily join in on their side.

'No,' says Findekáno easily. 'For now we are set on the decision that Curvo is the worst of them all.'

Silence falls over us, and I look out the window at the land speeding past. The trees and grass are a dismal grey that matches the low clouds in the sky. After rain melted the snow that we got on Thanksgiving, the whole world seems to have changed to this grey. The road is grey too. It really is quite depressing.

)()()()()()()()(

A tree stands proudly, sprawled and gnarled, by the road near the library. Its branches reach up bravely to the sky far above, and its roots dare to fight with the cement of the sidewalk. We nearly hit it when Maitimo pulls the car up to the curb.

'I'll get him,' I volunteer, eager to be out of this miserable contraption. 'If neither of you need anything at the library.'

They shake their heads, so I slide out of the car and shut the door carefully behind me. Walking briskly down the pathway, I study the stately white building nestled on the middle of a hill leading down to a river. The river is a grey, gushing mess that churns its way between two hills covered with trees and old houses.

The door is a heavy and red, and opens with a groan onto the quiet, warm sanctuary of the public library. The calm grey floors and serene white walls of the building are broken only by the rich brown of the wooden bookcases, the many-paned glass windows that rise with arches to the second story, and a large, friendly-looking yellow and brown giraffe, smiling at me where it stands in the main hall.

I give its tail, braided from strong rope, a brief and inconspicuous tug as I walk past it to the children's section. Not surprisingly, Curufinwë is not here. A little brown haired girl in a pink jacket looks up at me with great interest when I sigh. She holds a book close to her and widens her chocolate brown eyes at me.

'Hi,' I say.

She does not answer, just continues to stare.

I sigh again and leave the room, heading up the stairs. A pair of identical, redheaded twins is sitting on the top of said staircase, their arms around each other's shoulders, a book spread open on their knees in front of them. They are whispering teasingly in each other's ears, their lips brushing their pointed tips, chocking back giggles.

'Ambarussa,' I say, catching them off guard. 'What are you reading?'

They look up at me excitedly and fling themselves into my arms, as if the whole world depended on their getting this hug. I squeeze them back, and they release me and hand me the book.

'It is very interesting,' says Ambarussa, taking his brother's hand and waiting for my verdict.

I flip through _All of a Kind Family_ quickly and hand it back to them. 'It looks very sweet. Why don't you go borrow it? We have to leave soon.'

They scamper down the staircase with the book, and I continue on. I spot Tyelkormo standing on the open corridor, staring down at the ground floor. He notices me and leans casually against the railing, looking deliberately bored. 'Is it time to go home?' he asks.

'Yes,' I answer. 'Have you seen Curvo?'

'Not really,' he answers, twisting the end of his thick braid around his finger before tucking it into the back of the heavy green sage pullover he is wearing. He yanks on the quilted brown vest he was carrying as he heads down the stairs, tossing his head carelessly.

As I round the corner to the young adult's section, I collide with Carnistir, who has his arms filled with books and has to lean sharply back to keep them from falling to the floor.

'I'm sorry,' I say, helping him to regain his balance.

He nods curtly. 'Is it time to go?' he asks.

I nod as he walks away, and I am left wondering why it is that I am finding all of my brothers except the one I was sent to fetch.

Curufinwë I finally find sitting cross-legged in the adult fiction section, a book clutched in his hands, his eyes ravishing the pages. He jumps when I speak his name and shoves the book hastily back into the shelf, rising to his feet.

'What were you reading, Curufinwë?' I ask in my best stern, fatherly voice.

He folds his arms and looks stubborn. 'What would that matter to you?'

I drop to my knees beside the shelf and pull out a book that has been replaced hastily and sloppily and hold it up. 'Was it this?' I ask him.

He shrugs.

The title is _The Shadow of the Wind_, and a quick flip through it sends chills up and down my body. 'Curufinwë, I do not believe that Father would want you reading this,' I scold, reshelving it.

'I care little,' he says haughtily.

'Be careful, little brother,' I say, taking his hand. 'You are going to make Father seriously angry one of these days.'

He sniffs and puts his head up.

I tighten my grip on his hand and lead him towards the circulation desk. He stalks proudly beside me for a time, but then turns abruptly towards me and presses himself as tightly against me as he can get. 'I'm sorry,' he whines, widening his eyes innocently. He rubs his head up and down against me like a begging kitten and whimpers softly. 'Don't tell Father,' he murmurs, lowering his eyes.

I push him away from me and hold him at arm's length. 'I am going to tell Father _and_ Mother and, if you don't behave yourself, I'll tell Maitimo and Ñolofinwë as well,' I threaten.

He looks as indifferent as he possibly can under the circumstances and walks on. 'See if I care.'

)()()()()()()()()(

'Be careful,' says Maitimo as we begin to load the car.

But cramming lots of people into small vehicles has now become a special talent of ours, and eight does not seem that many.

'Findekáno, you come sit up front,' directs Maitimo. 'Makalaurë, Carnistir, Tyelkormo, you next, sit down.' We arrange ourselves on the backseat. 'All right,' he says. 'Telvo, go sit on Kano. Pityo, Moryo. Curvo, Turko. Good. Buckle yourselves in and make sure the doors are closed.'

We obey him without question, and I draw Ambarto tightly to me as I stretch the seatbelt over us. He leans back against me and looks up at the ceiling, his feet drumming on my legs. 'Ai, Telvo, stop that,' I say, and he turns to me with half a smile.

'Sorry, Kano,' he says with a shrug.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Ah, that is where you all went,' says my father when we stumble into the hallway, fumbling to hang up our coats. 'The library. It really is a wonderful place for you – full of all sorts of books that will expand your minds and give you valuable insight on the world that we now live in. What a splendid way to spend the afternoon.' His voice is hot and fast, and his breath singes the air when he pauses. He claps a hand to Carnistir's forehead and frowns. 'You should wear a hat in weather like this,' he says. 'But, enough of that, come inside, and I'll show you the latest addition to the household.'


	8. Chapter 8

_Findekáno_

)()()()()()()()()(

'What is it?' asks Tyelkormo, wrinkling his nose at the large plastic and metal box with tubes and wires hanging out of it that is sitting in the middle of our kitchen floor.

'This, my dear son, is a dishwater,' Fëanáro answers condescendingly with a quick wave in the general direction of the new mechanism.

'It washes dishes?' says Maitimo with interest, stepping forward and peering closely at the thing.

'Yes,' Fëanáro replies. 'You put them inside of it, and they get washed quite nicely.'

He speaks almost as if he invented the dishwasher, and he stands beside it with a rather smug smile on his face, his black hair pulled back into a quick bun that is starting to come loose. He wears a deep red pullover that clings to his slim frame and a pair of tight black pants. He looks flushed with excitement, and his cheeks have a rosy tint to them; his grey eyes burn brightly. He waits for our response.

'I think that it will be very useful Father,' says Maitimo with a slight dip of his head. He comes back to stand by me and puts his hand on my shoulder, his arm about me. I lean my head against him, glad that I will not have to answer now.

Fëanáro frowns at us for a moment, but his eyes are too deep to read what he is thinking. He draws his finger over the palm of his open hand, and closes his fist upon it. I hear the light scoff that falls from his opened lips, and he turns away.

I lower my head in shame, but for myself or for seeing him thus hurt, I do not know. His pain is not my fault, but still I cannot help but feel guilty. He is talking to Tyelkormo now, trying to sound cheerful, but I cannot hear them. Their words meld into a confusing blur somewhere inside my head.

)()()()()()()()()(

The trees are dark silhouettes against the deep blue sky. A soft grey light remains in the west, and the heavens above are beginning to fill with bright stars that wink off and on tiredly. A cold wind blows down from the north, and I shiver where I stand, drawing Arakáno closer to me, bouncing him in my arms. He takes one of my braids in his little hands and gives it a gentle tug.

'Close your eyes!' my father calls, and I quickly place my hand over Arakáno's eyes. He squirms uncomfortably, and I hush him as I close my own.

It is so dark with my eyes closed. I can just barely hear the breath of my family, gathered outside for the momentous occasion of turning on the Christmas lights. I have been slaving all day with them, untangling tangled cords, finding broken bulbs, dealing with obstinate strings that blink off and on before fixing themselves with no explanation whatsoever, sticking in tacks, unjamming the stapler, holding cold wires whilst my fingers froze in the icy air.

We have a Christmas tree this year, although I can only begin to guess what Yavanna would have to say about that. It would most definitely not be something pleasant. But a tree we got anyway, and Carnistir, Maitimo and I had a most difficult time putting it up in the living room. Even when we were done, it was crooked. But Fëanáro came along and straightened it for us; he seems to believe that everything must be perfect.

'Open your eyes now,' Father calls out from the darkness.

The house, large and white, has lights hanging from its eaves like icicles and colourful, cheery lights around the windows where white candles glow. The small pine tree in the front yard is blazing with merry colour, and the tall tree in the living room shines out through the window, warm and inviting.

I close my eyes again, and the lights are burnt into my mind. An arm wraps around me, and I am enveloped in the warmth and delicate scent of my mother, who smiles at me and kisses my little brother. I hand him to her, and she takes him into her arms. 'Do you see that?' she asks.

He nods, wide-eyed. His fingers twitch with excitement, and his little feet start to kick. She bounces him gently.

A hand grabs mine, hard and fast, and I look down into the shining eyes of Angaráto. 'It is beautiful,' he says, moving so close to me that he steps on my foot.

I wince.

'I am sorry,' he says earnestly, looking rather afraid and distressed.

'It is nothing, darling,' I answer, putting my arms around him, letting him lean against me. Aikanáro spots us together and pushes his way over, trying to force his way into my embrace. 'Hey, hey, you will fit too,' I assure him, placing him securely beside his brother and gathering them both into my arms. Aikanáro tilts his head back to look up at me, the coloured lights reflected fiercely in his dark sapphire blue eyes. I caress his cheek, glowing golden, with my gloved hand, and he smiles.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Have we got everything?' I ask Maitimo as I finish loading the stroller into the back of our car. I slam the trunk down and lean against it for a moment as he checks for his wallet.

'I think so,' he says, shoving the wallet back inside the pocket of his brown corduroys and fastening the top button of his tan coat. 'Do you have the baby?'

'I left him inside,' I answer, pushing up the sleeves of my coat, which is much too large for me, and opening the door to the house.

Arakáno is standing in the hall where I left him, bundled up so tightly that I can barely see his eyes. I lift him into my arms and push the green scarf down so that he can breathe and kiss the tip of his little nose. 'Now remember, Arakáno,' I say gently. 'You are too young too walk on your own, and you can only say a few words.

'Can I say the extraterrestrial hippopotamus was left forever storming repentantly through the revolving door?' Arakáno asks excitedly in perfect English.

'No,' I answer in sensible Quenya. 'You can only say words like 'mum' and 'dad'. In fact, it would be better if you did not really say anything at all,' I add after a few moments of reflection.

He pouts. 'I wish I did not have to pretend to be a baby all the time,' he laments.

'You are a baby,' I say, carrying him out to the car.

'But I can talk and walk and dance and run!' he protests. He lets out a little sigh as I open the back door and start to settle him into his car seat.

I pull his hat off and brush his dark hair off his face. 'I know, but the little human boys your age cannot, and you are pretending to be one of them.' I try to make it sound like some great game, but my voice falls dismally flat.

He pouts, so I rub his soft cheek with my thumb. 'I am sorry, baby,' I whisper gently. He nods understandingly, and I give him a quick kiss before buckling him securely in.

I settle down in the front passenger seat and draw my seatbelt over me. 'No one else wanted to come?' I ask Maitimo as he starts the car.

He shakes his head. 'No, the children are still in school, and everyone else was too busy with something or other. I think that your parents are glad we took Arakáno off their hands.'

'Ah.' I glance to my right and see Tyelkormo running up to the car looking hurried and slightly exasperated.

''Timo,' I say, placing my hand on him. 'I think you had better wait. Turko looks like he wants to speak to you.'

Maitimo rolls down his window, and Tyelkormo comes to a stop beside the car. 'May I come with you, Nelyo?' he asks in a tone of voice that assures me that he already knows the answer.

'Of course,' says Maitimo, and Tyelkormo opens the back door and slides in easily. 'Hey, Arakáno,' he says tweaking gently on my little brother's nose.

Arakáno giggles madly and then glares at the car seat, but then a sudden look of utter horror fills his eyes and he turns to me. 'You didn't bring the _stroller_, did you?'

I exchange a knowing look with Maitimo. 'Yes, love, we did.'

Tyelkormo gives the baby a sympathetic look. 'Sorry, kid.'

)()()()()()()()()(

The store is large and unappealing, boxy and tan with _Marshals _written in big blue letters over the front door. The parking lot is a mess, cramped full of vehicles glistening in the sun. Maitimo circles it a few times before finally finding an empty spot, and he guides the car in carefully.

'What is this store?' asks Tyelkormo, pulling his gloves back on.

'It is a clothing store,' answers Maitimo as he gets out and waits for us.

I slide out of the car and open the trunk; the stroller is rather a hassle to open, but I manage and place Arakáno carefully into it. He looks sulky, but does not say anything. I roll the stroller over the dirty, icy parking lot, being careful to avoid slushy puddles and crawling vehicles. The stroller jars along despite my best efforts, and I feel sorry for my little brother who bumps along with it.

The inside of the store is alarmingly bright, with white walls and a white ceiling and rows and rows of fluorescent lights that shine strangely down on the merchandise and the shoppers, mainly women who look at this and that with care and critique.

I roll the stroller back and forth as I wait for Maitimo to decide where we should go first. Tyelkormo has already scuttled off, but I do not know where he has gone. I stand on the tips of my toes as I scan the busy store and spot him in the boys' section, looking through shirts.

'I think we should go this way first,' I tell Maitimo, because he is just standing still uncertainly and take him gently by the arm, steering him towards the girls' clothes. 'We need to get Irissë a new coat.'

He follows me down the aisles, looking rather out of place. Tall and elegant, with shimmering red hair and a perfect, pale complexion, he stands out from everyone else, and most people stop to stare at him, even if they try not to be noticeable. It embarrasses him; I know that. He tucks his loose hair nervously behind his ears as he walks after me, his steps silent and graceful on the vinyl floor.

I stop by the girls' coats and begin to search for a white one that will fit Irissë. There are not many white ones among the coats, which are dominated by pink and black, and I sigh. I have been searching for a nice coat for her for over a month, and I still have not found anything suitable.

'Frustrated so early in the day?' Maitimo asks me, pulling teasingly on my hair. 'You will have no strength left for the rest of it.'

'Why does Irissë have to be so hard to shop for?' I wonder out loud. 'Why is it that she always insists on wearing white?' I hold up a little sky blue coat for him to see. 'What is wrong with this?'

'It's not white,' Maitimo states, searching nimbly through the display rack. 'Or silver,' he adds as an afterthought. He lifts up a white scarf with golden strings shot through it. 'We could get this to go with the coat that we have not found yet. What do you think?'

'She wants silver, not gold,' I answer with a sigh, as I try to determine if the cream coat I found would be considered white enough by my little sister's standards. Deciding against it, I hang it back up and look down to see how Arakáno is doing. He is watching us with interest, biting his lip, probably to stop himself from talking. I lift him out of the stroller and place him against my hip, rocking him back and forth.

'What is it, little one?' I whisper in his ear.

He points silently to my left, and I turn to see a small white coat left hanging in the older girls' clothes. I hold it up and scrutinize the wool coat with large white buttons in two neat rows marching down the front.

'It looks her size,' says Maitimo thoughtfully. He is twisting another scarf around his neck absently, this one a deep blue. He steps closer and runs his fingers over it. 'I think she would like it.'

We both look down at Arakáno, who widens his large eyes at us and says nothing. Since we told him that he should not speak, he has taken to not speaking with an obstinacy that amazes even Maitimo.

'What do you think?' Maitimo asks him, bending down to look my little brother in the eyes, tilting his head to one side curiously.

His only answer is an important sniff that Arakáno delivers before turning away from us and looking around the store as if he were searching for something of the utmost significance. We can only take it to mean 'yes', so Maitimo takes the coat from me and hangs it on the stroller.

A dim shadow passes over me, and I turn to see Tyelkormo, who has a few shirts draped over his arm. He sidles up to his older brother and shows them to him one by one, telling him quietly which ones are for whom.

'Very good,' Maitimo says, taking Tyelkormo's hand and rubbing his fingers affectionately.

Tyelkormo pulls his hand away sharply and gives Maitimo a hard look. 'Not in public,' he hisses, glancing about him as if he is afraid someone might have seen.

'Why ever not?' Maitimo asks, dropping his hand back to his side sadly, his fingers closing about each other.

Hesitating, Tyelkormo begins to speak, but says nothing. He scowls for a moment, but, with a quick shake of his head, he turns away. 'Just no.'

)()()()()()()()()(

The bustle of the mall hits my ears before we even step inside; loud and maddening, it overwhelms me in an instant. The chatter of the shoppers and the squeaks and stomps of their wet shoes mix in a frightful din over the music streaming out from the various little stores. A woman wearing a black shirt with half the top cut off hurries past us, shouting into the cell phone that she holds tightly to her ear. Arakáno frowns and squirms uncomfortably in my arms, covering his little ears with his hands. Tyelkormo looks about critically and raises his eyebrows at Maitimo, nodding worriedly in the direction of my little brother.

'What do we need here?' I ask Maitimo, holding Arakáno protectively against me. It seems as if I were to let go of him he would be trampled to his death in the swarm of undulating shoppers. A tiny cry escapes his lips, and I cradle his head tightly.

'A few things,' Maitimo answers back, looking quickly over the crowds. He takes a step forward, and a path opens before him and soon swallows him as it surges back. With his red head, glinting with bright sunlight that falls down from the windows on the ceiling, high above the masses and his arms swaying out at his sides, he looks as if he were swimming in the throng.

Tyelkormo stares after him, still, for a moment, but soon pushes his way into the crowd, sauntering after his brother with occasional scowls to either side. His head held high and proud, he saunters past the milling people as if he owned the mall, giving passer-bys a regal bow of his head when he deems it appropriate.

They have left me. I stand alone with Arakáno fast in my arms and a dark sea of strangers between my cousins and me. My heart picks up speed, and my throat goes dry. It all seems so irrational. I should just step ahead like they did; I should not wait until I loose them. But I fear for Arakáno; he is trembling in my arms, his lip quivering uncontrollably. It must be too loud for his delicate ears. I pull his hat firmly over them, hoping that it will help. He turns to look up at me, and I can see tears brimming in his eyes.

'Maitimo,' I try to call out after him, but his name comes out in a whisper, like a lost wisp of smoke trying to fight its way over the roaring wind. I take a step back, closing my eyes.

I can feel a hand resting on my shoulder, and look up into the worried face of Maitimo. 'Findekáno,' he says. 'Are you all right?'

'You left me,' I say lamely, dropping my head down; my brown leather shoes are battered and scuffed, and they stand out sorely on the shiny white floor.

Maitimo caresses my cheek, tilting my head up with his strong hand. He looks deeply into my eyes, searching them. His lips are drawn down into a troubled frown, and his grey eyes shimmer uncertainly. 'Hey,' he whispers, 'I am not going to leave you. I will never leave you.' He takes my hand and kisses it. 'I promise.'


	9. Chapter 9

_Findekáno_

)()()()()()()()()(

'Now, don't move,' Findaráto orders as he fiddles with his camera, one eye closed. He balances the camera on the top of his knee, his fingers closed tight on the small blue box.

My arms around Maitimo's neck, I feel my smile growing slowly stiff. Makalaurë, who is leaning against Maitimo's arm, stifles back a sigh. Maitimo, however, does not seem to mind. His smile is as bright and mischievous as it was seventeen minutes ago when Findaráto was struck by one of his photography swings.

'Once I get this,' Findaráto says, rubbing his finger teasingly over the capture button, 'I'll turn it into a Christmas card that you can send to all of your school friends.'

'And they will think "Who had the insane idea to pose you as a Christmas tree?"' Makalaurë says through his gritted grin. '"Or are you really that crazy yourselves?"'

'Come now,' Findaráto scolds. 'It is a good composition – the classic triangle. Now, no speaking or I will never get it right.' He draws the camera back slightly, playing with the zoom. 'Findekáno, move a little to the right.'

I shift towards Makalaurë, knowing that is what Findaráto means, and balance my chin on the top of their heads.

'That looks good,' he says softly, his finger lowering. 'Now, everyone – _smile!_' He flashes us a grin as the camera clicks sharply. 'Perfect!'

'Are you sure?' Maitimo asks. 'That's the twenty-third shot you took.'

'Oh, I'm sure,' he answers, beaming with satisfaction at the display screen. 'You all look so cute…'

I take the camera from him and look down at the three of us, standing, dressed in green, in front of the Christmas tree, with an artificial star glowing peacefully down from above us. 'What is this? Blackmail?'

He snatches the camera back, looking hurt. 'Of course not,' he says indignantly.

'It sure looked like it from this angle,' Maitimo teases.

'You don't understand art,' Findaráto sniffs. He tucks the camera back into its black case with a wicked smile. Shoving it into his pocket, he hurries away, chuckling with pure Telerin happiness.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Why do you get out of school so early?' Aikanáro asks me as he trudges into the attic, slinging his blue backpack with disgust onto the floor.

'Mmm,' I think for a moment, freshly interrupted from writing the latest entry in my very neglected diary. I pull the end of my pen out of my mouth. 'I think it's because a lot of students have to live at their college, so they need a long break to enjoy their home,' I reply.

Angaráto's head pops up from the trap door, his gold hair glinting in the dim light. If this were not a rental home, I would talk to my father about installing a skylight. He discards his backpack with equal disdain and follows his brother over to me.

'What are you writing?' he asks, looking down at my open diary.

I hastily shut the book, placing my hands over the cover. 'Memories,' I say.

They look interested. 'What sort of memories?' Aikanáro asks me, tracing my hand with his finger. He watches me, concern in his bright eyes. I touch his hair, short and tousled, sliding my fingers through it.

'Private memories.'

He studies me diligently. His eyes, flashing, watching, learning, pierce mine.

Carefully Angaráto places his hand on my shoulder. The grip is hard and secure for such a small hand. He caresses my shoulder, loosening the muscles on my arms. 'Don't cry,' he whispers.

With a start, I realize that my eyes are moist. I brush the tears away quickly and give the boy a small smile. 'I won't,' I assure him.

'Good.' He regards me for a few long moments, searching, it seems, to understand me. 'I,' he says shortly but stops and looks down. 'We ought to go see Mum.' He takes Aikanáro's hand. 'Come along, little brother.'

'But,' Aikanáro protests.

Angaráto gives him a hard look. 'Now.'

They walk away together, almost sadly, across the floor. I have half a mind to get up and stop them, but the pen in my hand holds me back. But there are too many words tangled in my head to speak, and I know that I must write them.

I open my diary again, my fingers smoothing out the even page. The words stare up at me, daring me to add to them, daring me to cast them aside.

_My Dearest Arakáno,_

_It seems such a very short time since I first held you in my arms and kissed your sweet, little head, and yet is seems so long. The day you were born was a hard one for us; we still barely knew what was happening – what had happened. I remember the way Mother cried as Father comforted her with soft words. Nerdanel and Ëarwen cared for her, coaxing you out into the cold, new world. I held my little ones, Aikanáro and Angaráto (imagine, your older cousins) against me, and Turukáno held Irissë. She cried._

_It was nighttime. The stars were very bright; they seemed to want to welcome you. We lived in tents, traveling. Like the nomads I read about in books. Fëanáro never wants to settle down; even now he is urging Father to move on, stirring his sons. I don't want to move again; we are always moving. It's hard, you never do anything, just move and move, trying to find food, a bit of work, sell something. I like this house, this city, at least, the best that I can. It's better than the endless journeys Fëanáro put us through. But that is what he wants, although he won't leave us. He promised Father that. He took his hand and swore it. Father kissed him too. I saw it._

_I heard you cry in the stillness; Nelyo had just come in. He was standing there, watching me. He started to ask me something, and you cried. He ran out then. I followed him. It seemed forever that you cried as I stood in those cold Nebraska fields, the stars bright above us. Father let us in, one by one, let us kiss you, hold you. I took you against me, in my arms; I kissed your forehead, your lips. I breathed you in. I promised to love you. Father took you away too soon._

_I went out; I stood in the field, in the grass, on the frost. I closed my eyes. I tried to take all the stars in, but I was too small. I felt so frightened, to see you placed in this world. I felt as terrified as the day we arrived…_

I take the pen up again, pressing the blue tip against the white paper. The pages beg to be filled.

_You could never understand. I will never understand. The grass was so warm, and the sky was so bright. I was lying there, just glad to be alive. I did not yet know that I should have been glad to be there. My body was flushed from running, and the blood pounded in my veins. We were gathered there, for a picnic. Fëanáro was angry and his father tried to calm him. I remember that he paced the fields, the gold on his scarlet tunic flashing. His fists were tight, but I still do not know what he was angry about. He kept saying that he would leave, but he didn't._

_Russandol came and lay down beside me; he said something about the warmth. I remember he stared at me, touching my face as if he…_

My words trail to a stop, and the pen shakes in my hand. As if he thought he would loose me. As if he wondered whose side I would be on. As if I were too much like my father. I do not know. I cannot finish the sentence.

I throw the pen down and shut the book, shoving it underneath the dresser. No one ever looks there. My heart aches at the memories, the shock, the terror. I draw my knees up against my chest and hug them to me, a song brushing at my lips. I sing it in the empty room to comfort myself, my voice shakes and echoes back to me off the slanted walls, almost mocking me and my burning heart.

Suddenly I wish that Angaráto were still here, telling me not to cry. I would take him into my arms and hold him close and run my fingers through his tousled hair. He would ask me again not to cry, but I would not be able to listen to him. I would kiss the top of his head as my tears fell down my cheeks, and he would brush them away solemnly and kiss me and tell me that he loves me, and he would mean every word that he said. He would not ask me why I was crying. He would not try to assure me that everything is all right. He knows already that everything is not.


	10. Chapter 10

Maitimo

)()()()()()()()()(

There is nothing here for me save the tangled wood and thick, low-lying shrubbery, the aged tombstones and scatterings of brief, faded wildflowers. I stand in the middle of the clearing, just a few paces from the hidden entrance up the worn stone steps and through the birch trees. The sky above me is high and blue and all is still, the only sounds are the wind in the branches, the dry rustle of dead leaves, and the distant noise of the traffic on the highway reminding me that I cannot escape forever. I can hear nothing of myself; my breath and my heartbeat are lost under the wind's call.

The trees crowd close to the clearing, their trunks and branches meeting and embracing each other as the light of the winter sun fights its way through the tangled branches. But they cannot reach the graveyard, and the tombstones stand away from them, assaulted only by the sleeping blueberries and other creeping plants of the wild. The stones are old and have lost some of their former dignity; their surfaces are cracked and water-stained, and lichen grows upon them. Some have even fallen over onto the ground, and lie there, their dedications facing the heavens. I know most of them now, the names inscribed gravely beside the dates, to remind those that come later who it is that now lie beneath the ground, dead and forgotten. Poems accompany the names, the words sad and antiquated.

These are most dear but soon shall pass, that summons of the hart, congenial spearits soon alas, are ever doomed to part

I know these lines by heart now and often repeat them to myself. There is a great pillar here that rises above the rest, a stone vase carved on the top of it, the head marker for three graves. A captain is buried there; it says he died in Cuba. There is an eleven-year-old girl buried there as well, her poem is optimistic:

_Beautiful, lovely, she was but given, a fair bud on earth to blossom in heaven._

And a ten-year-old boy as well, whose line is stabbing:

_The last link is now broken and torn from my grasp._

I close my eyes and fold my arms over my chest; a chill wind is wrestling with me, trying to force its way inside my coat and under my shirt where it can bite at my naked skin. I feel tears form in my eyes for a reason I do not understand, and I wish suddenly that I could reach out and take the hand of the woman who stood here on this very soil a hundred years ago, bidding farewell to her young son, snatched so cruelly from her.

Death is something that I still do not understand. I now know what it is, after fighting for years with the mystery of Míriel's death. 'Mother?' I had asked, too afraid to speak to my father. 'What do they mean when they sat that Míriel died?' She had always looked at me as if she was afraid to answer. 'She is never coming back,' she would say, avoiding my eyes. 'Back?' I had repeated, puzzled. 'Back from where?' 'From the Halls of Waiting,' she would reply. 'Where the dead are gathered and wait in darkness.' But no matter how I would beg, she would say nothing more.

I know what death is all too clearly now, yet it seems somehow to be unfathomable. These people, these humans, die. They all die at some point, growing withered and old, looking as if they would fall to pieces before my very eyes. They smile at me with crooked teeth, their skin wrinkled and spotted with brown. And I want to turn away and cry to Námo, asking him what they ever did to deserve such a fate, but I cannot, and even if I did, I doubt I would get an answer.

I sink down to the ground; the shrubbery pricks at me, but I do not care for the moment. I feel too tired to stand any longer, and my heart is heavy in my chest, even if there is no reason for my sorrow. I did not know these people whose death poems I read, tracing my finger over the worn, rough lines. Still I grieve for them and with them, over the span of all these years.

'Nelyo, are you crying?' A warm hand touches my face; fingers run across my cheek, along my nose. It is Carnistir; I can see glimpses of the deep red of his battered leather jacket and the crisp white of his shirt's collar from behind a curtain of my hair.

'Yes,' I say, turning away from him, brushing my loose, wild hair off my face. It is tangled and catches on my fingers, gleaming bright copper in the pale light.

His hand stays me, but he does not put his arms about me. 'Why?' He is crouching beside me; I can feel his eyes on me as he scrutinizes and judges my actions silently in his head.

'I am sad, Moryo,' I answer, turning to him. His face is blurred and distorted by my unshed tears, his upper lip turned up slightly in a contemplative scowl, baring his teeth, his thick, dark brows drawn down sharply over his deep grey eyes, narrowed as he stares up at me from under lashes that cling together, drooping with their own weight. 'I do not want to die.'

His lips close, still scowling, but his eyes are not angry with me. They are troubled, confused, but gentle; he seems to want to comfort me. Leaning ever so slightly closer, he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. He lets his breath out, and it is warm and plays softly against my chin. His lips tremble.

'Moryo, Moryo,' I whisper, sliding my hand into his hair, grasping it tightly as it slips, silk-like between my fingers. I draw him forward until his face is against mine, his ruddy, freckled cheek flush with my ivory skin. Our lashes flutter together, catching lightly against each other. 'Ai, brother mine.' I take his other hand and squeeze it so tightly that his fingers bunch together like a crushed nosegay. 'It sometimes seems that that is what lies before us. It makes no sense; it makes no sense at all, but, oh, Moryo, I do not want to die.'

He dips his head, closing his eyes; his lashes sweep my skin. 'No, Nelyo,' he says. 'No, I don't suppose any of us do.' Looking about him, he rubs my arm. 'But this is a morbid place to be for one who fears death so. What are you doing here?'

'I often come here,' I say, knowing fully how foolish that sounds at the present. 'It offers me some peace from the duties of the day. I do not know why it brings me no peace now. Indeed, it fills me with a great dread.'

'You are afraid.'

Without answering I tilt his chin up, searching his face. The tears have fallen from my eyes, and I can see him clearly now, the hollows of his cheeks, his narrow nose, the little dent in the middle of his bottom lip, that lone freckle on his left eyelid. I rub his sharp cheek with my thumb. 'What are you doing here?'

'I followed you.'

'Why?'

'I was worried.' He looks down, biting his lip, his hands hanging restlessly between his bent knees; a plain silver ring on his right forefinger glints forlornly.

I touch it, rubbing gently the smooth metal band. 'You were worried about me? Why?' My voice is slowly fading away, and I can barely hear the last word that sinks down into the air and drifts off on a slight breath of wind that slips past us.

'Promise me something,' he says instead of explaining.

I nod, unable to speak. His fingers are cold, but mine are colder. I rub our hands together for relative warmth, closing my hands over the ring.

'That you'll never kill yourself.'

)()()()()()()()()(

'Maitimo, Carnistir, where have you been?' My mother tucks her blue shirt into a pair of boot-cut trousers as she speaks, searching about for something that someone else undoubtedly misplaced. Even in her hurry, her voice is quiet and calm, and she only arches her eyebrows slightly when Carnistir shrugs.

'Out,' he says.

'Ah,' she brushes her hair behind her ears. 'Well, your father, Anairë, Ëarwen, Ñolo, Ara, and I are all going out for the evening.'

'All of you?' Carnistir asks in amazement. He hangs his coat up on a peg already loaded with three others.

'Yes,' she answers smoothly. 'We have important business to attend regarding,' she pauses, biting her lip. Glancing us over briefly, she shakes her head. 'Matters.'

I know instinctively not to press any further. 'I understand,' I say, laying my hand on Carnistir to silence him.

'Good.' She kisses Carnistir gently as he begins to frown. 'Maitimo, take care of everyone; I forget how many friends are coming over, although I think there were two. Kano, Findekáno, and Turko are making dinner, so you don't have to worry about that.' She taps her finger together as Anairë walks into the hall, buttoning her pale pink cardigan. 'Does Findekáno know who is coming over?' my mother asks her.

'He does,' Anairë answers, removing Carnistir's coat to get to her own and sliding it on with grace.

'Good. You can ask Findekáno about the guests.' She pecks my cheek and walks out the door. 'Just remember, no one should be here past nine,' she calls back as an afterthought.

'Ah, Russandol,' Ëarwen chimes, ducking underneath Anairë's arm. 'Would you go check on Artaher for me? I really don't have time to check up on whom he is texting.'

'Of course,' I answer, glancing around to see if I can spot any of the fathers. Ñolofinwë nearly collides with me as he comes running down the stairs. 'Sorry, Nelyo,' he says, leaning sharply to the side and hitting the wall. 'It's just that we're late.'

'You're late,' Ëarwen teases with a shrug of her shoulders. 'We were waiting on you.'

'Where's Curufinwë?' he asks, ignoring the flirt.

The van's horn blares from outside.

'Waiting on you,' Ëarwen says sweetly as she steps out the door.

'Ai, my coat,' he murmurs, searching the cluttered pegs.

I pull mine off and hand it to him. 'Here, go.'

He takes it from me with a grateful smile. 'Thank-you.' And with that, he ducks out the door and closes it firmly behind him.

As the thud dies out, I am left standing in the last silence I will know for quite some time.

)()()()()()()()()(

_Author's notes:_

_Since The Laws and Customs of the Eldar states that Elves marry young and are engaged before that, I am assuming that Carnistir (who Tolkien said in some of his drafts might be married) was engaged at a young age. Elves wear small, plain silver rings on their right forefingers when engaged, gold rings of similar design when they are married._


	11. Chapter 11

_Maitimo_

)()()()()()()()()(

I walk quickly into the living room, which is unusually empty, but still echoes with noise and excited movement, and glance around for Artaher. I spot him curled up tightly in one corner of the sofa, while the younger children make some sort of fishing vessel of it about him, giggling as they throw blankets upon the floor to net innocent stuffed animals. Sidling up to him, I steal his cell phone away.

'Oh,' he says in surprise, looking for a moment at the space where the phone had been. Brushing his pale blond hair off his creamy white face he looks up at me wide-eyed. 'What is it?'

'Ah,' I say, reading the messages over slowly. 'Who is Maria?'

'A friend,' he says, trying to take the phone back. 'We're discussing history. It's very educational.'

Flipping the phone back and forth a few times, I scrutinize the strange abbreviations and half-words written across the screen. There seems to be nothing harmful or life threatening, so I hand it back to him. 'Learn.'

He takes it from me gratefully. 'I will.' His thumbs start to fly again and he draws his knees up protectively around the little world he has created.

'Nelyo, Nelyo!' Irissë calls excitedly from the armrest of the sofa. 'What are you doing in the middle of the ocean? You are going to drown!'

For a moment I start, then remember their game. 'Oh, the horrors!' I cry, clutching madly at the air like a drowning sailor, and sink down to the floor.

Artanis raises her eyebrows. 'We did not even try to save him,' she says sadly, looking down at me from where she stands on the sofa. 'I take pity on him.'

I spring from the floor in an instant and lift her up into my arms, brushing her soft hair off her baby face, letting the gentle wisps cling to my fingers like tangling seaweed. 'Shall I take you down with me?' She shakes her head and buries her face against my shoulder. I sway her back and forth, like a gentle sea. 'No?'

'No.' She clings tighter to me, her little fingers digging into my arms. I kiss her. 'Then I shan't. One little sailor coming aboard!' I toss her gently onto the sofa and tickle her into place. She shrieks and pulls away. 'Bad Nelyo!' I kiss her nose. 'Naughty little girl.'

'Russandol,' says Turukáno walking in, his dark hair pulled back in a braid almost as tight as his fingers, which grip the book he is carrying to his chest, knuckles white. 'Have you seen the atrocity your brother is creating in the kitchen?'

'Uh, no,' I say, letting go of Artanis and straightening up. 'Which brother?'

'Makalaurë,' he says coolly, as if it is completely obvious. He pauses a moment as Findaráto walks out of the kitchen after him and waits for him to take his place by his side. 'Who else would be trying to destroy our reputation as a house of good chefs?' he asks primly.

Findaráto nods and raises his eyebrows only half-seriously, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips. He glances at his dead-serious twin-cousin and quickly links arms with him, giving me an authoritive frown.

'Kano wouldn't want to do that,' I retort, trying not to be put off by their joined indignation. 'Whatever put a silly idea like that into your head?'

'It just seems that is how it happens,' he replies with a shrug of his shoulders, Findaráto rising by his side as he lifts his arm. 'Things go all right until he gets into the kitchen.'

'He likes to experiment,' I say quickly in defence of my brother. 'He can't help it if he thinks it good and right to play with your menu.' I give him a slight smile and raise my eyebrows. 'Surely you wouldn't blame him?'

'There are better things to experiment with than food,' Turukáno says haughtily, and Findaráto nods very rapidly beside him. 'I find it hard to believe that my brother is going along.'

'What are they doing?'

He raises his eyebrows delicately. 'Attempting to perfect that culinary disaster of pizza by the excess addition of blueberries,' he says. Findaráto pulls his face into such an expression of horror and dismay, his blue eyes beginning to grow wet and his lips turned down into a coy pout as his shoulders sag with the weight of the universe, that I find I am unable to contain my laughter any longer.

'I'll look into it,' I gasp, between fits; barely able to keep standing, I hurry past them into the kitchen.

'What was that about?' I can hear Turukáno ask in wonder as Findaráto's giggles follow after me.

Makalaurë and Findekáno are standing proudly, their arms about each other's floured shoulders, in front of the oven, peering down through the glass at whatever is baking inside. It definitely smells like pizza, and two other pans are waiting patiently on the table for the opportunity to bake.

I can still remember the first time I tasted pizza. I had joined a few of my new friends for dinner at a cheap restaurant called Pizza Hut that reeked of grease and outdated spices. They had forced me to sit at a table too small for anyone of a reasonable height with a good view of a bright clock that wheeled around too quickly proudly announcing that 'any time is pizza time.' They had bade me eat a salad of vegetables that had long ago lost all their colour, and slices of a strange bread almost as hard as a cracker covered with a peculiar red sauce made of squashed tomatoes and salty cheese with the texture of rubber. They had kicked me under the table, thrown their dirty napkins around, and laughed until the sugar drink that smelt like poison and tasted like sweetened dirt squirted out of their noses onto the very shirts that they had just played a game of basket ball in. And they had expected me to enjoy myself.

I laugh at the memories, scolding myself a little for being so naïve. 'It looks delicious, you two,' I tell them, giving them each a gentle tug of the hair. 'You really think blueberries will do well with that?'

'It's worth a try,' chimes Makalaurë, looking as if he were ready to collapse into my arms.

I step away from him, not stable enough myself to take that. Choking back another chuckle, I try to remember business.

'Findekáno,' I say, pulling a serious face and assuming a firm voice. 'Who is coming over this evening?'

'Tyelkormo has a friend coming, but they're supposed to go out,' he answers smartly, standing up straight. 'He just went up to change.'

'Whom is he going with?'

'Robert Ashfield.'

'Where are they going?'

'I do not know.' I make a mental note to ask Tyelkormo the next time I see him. He is not going to be very happy with my controlling his life this time, I can tell. Robert and he like to keep secrets.

'Is Robert staying for dinner?'

'Yes.'

Typical.

'Who else is coming?'

'Findaráto and Amarië's friend Katherine.'

'Is she staying for dinner?'

'Yes.'

'Are they going to go anywhere?'

'No.'

'What are they going to do?'

'Mmm,' for a moment he looks as if he might make something up, but then he shrugs. 'Talk, I guess.'

'Very well then.' I turn sharply on Makalaurë, who is veering dangerously from side-to-side on his tiptoes. 'What is wrong with you?'

He glances at the oven but shakes his head. 'Nothing.'

)()()()()()()()()(

'Ah, Tyelkormo,' I call as he creeps down the stairs, brown jacket zipped already to his chin.

'Yes?' he says, obviously annoyed as he pauses on the stairs, fumbling uselessly with the top button of his tight blue jeans. He swings one leg carelessly over the banister and stares down at me. 'Where are you and Robert going?' I ask.

'We're just going out with Margaret to see a movie,' he answers, slinging the other leg over the railing as well, ready to drop down.

I move from my place at the bottom of the stairwell and stand in front of the door. 'Which movie?'

Pausing a moment, he runs his fingers over the top of his head, brushing them against the tip of his ear. 'I forget.'

The door behind me opens suddenly, and Robert steps in. He is a relatively strong bloke with shiny black hair that he has slicked back from his freckled face. His eyes are a muddy brown green, framed by lashes that look too long for them. Dressed in dark clothing and bright red shoes, he stands behind me, coming up to my nose, but almost twice as thick. 'Where's Turko?' he asks, folding his arms.

'Behind me,' I answer as I turn to him. He scratches the side of his neck absently, peering over my shoulder.

I can see Margaret Turner standing outside in the driveway. Her brown hair in a loose ponytail whips about her shoulders, slapping against the loose dark green windbreaker she wears over her slender body; skinny legs peeking from beneath it like sticks. 'Is he coming?' she calls to Robert, her face illuminated by the phone she taps away at.

Tyelkormo pushes me aside on his way to the door. 'I'll be right there,' he says a bit gruffly, starting to close the door on me.

Taking him by the arm, I turn him to me. 'When are you going to be back?' I ask.

He looks at me and then at Robert, who smirks slightly at the notion of a curfew. 'I…'

'When does the movie end?' I ask him sternly; my voice sounds remarkably like my grandfather Mahtan's.

'Eight,' he says, scowling slightly at the floor.

I turn his head back up to me, my hand firm on his burning cheek. 'Be back at nine, okay?'

He looks again at Robert, who is trying not to laugh and out at Margaret, who has put away her phone and stands with her arms about her, watching us.

'Okay.'

Kissing his cheek, I release his arm. 'Have fun.'

)()()()()()()()()(

It is two in the morning, and Tyelkormo and my parents still have not returned. I am sitting on the bottom of the stairwell picking numbly at the cold piece of half-eaten blueberry pizza I stole from the fridge fifteen minutes ago when my stomach started grumbling. It seems impossible to eat now, however, and I balance the plate on the windowsill.

Makalaurë is sitting beside me, his arms folded over his chest. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, and he kicks at the baseboard of the wall. 'They were supposed to be back hours ago,' he mutters to the air. '_He_ said he'd be back at nine.' He looks up at the ceiling, his dark hair falling over his face. He does not seem to notice.

'I know,' I answer. I get up to pace for a few minutes; my legs have grown stiff. I wonder if Findekáno is asleep. He was sent upstairs to comfort the little ones, and he has not returned.

'Kano,' I say, 'I'm going to check on the others.' I touch his shoulder, almost out of a need to make sure he's there.

He nods. 'I'm going to get something to drink,' he adds, standing up, his feet heavy. He picks up my plate. 'Are you done?'

I nod.

With a sigh, he turns to the kitchen. I can hear him moving about in there without bothering to turn on the light. Quickly I ascend the stairs, still tight with worry. What if someone were killed? There are robbers and murderers and gangs and assassins and car wrecks. This is not a safe world.

The door opens below me, and I turn back in haste, but I can hear someone crying. I stop at the top of the stairwell, my shadow lost in the dark.

I can see my father clearly where he stands in the light, his fingers restless at his sides. His whole body seems tight, and he keeps biting and releasing his lip, glancing about him as if there were dangers lurking out of sight. Ëarwen looks very serious, as if she is thinking hard about something that only she can unravel; she holds Anairë's hand, squeezing her fingers occasionally. My mother is leaning against the wall, her hair falling freely over her face, her eyes closed. She breathes slowly, as if she is savouring every breath. Arafinwë half-lies in his brother's arms, his shoulders shaking as he sobs. Ñolofinwë cradles him like a small child, his fingers finding their way through his hair and along his back. He hushes him without meaning it. 'I'm so sorry,' he gasps into Ñolo's shirt. 'It isn't your fault,' he answers, his lips absently brushing his golden hair.

'No,' my father says suddenly. 'No, Ara, it isn't.'

'But,' he whispers, his voice and lips trembling as he looks up at him. His brother.

My father stands still for a moment, and my head suddenly starts to spin.

'But,' Ara begins again, but my father does not let him finish.

'I will take the blame.'


	12. Chapter 12

Maitimo

)()()()()()()()()(

Makalaurë is warm in my arms, his head drooping against my shoulder. I forget how long I have sat here, my head bent and my eyes closed. My father's words still ring in my ears; his sharp eyes. _It will be all right, Russandol_, he whispered to me. _I am not going to be killed. The police may want to know, that is all. They may just want to know, but we need not tell them. We will not if we can help it. _But how much will they want to know? My father has told me so little; he said that he did not have time, but I know that he did not want to trouble me. He seems to forget that I am not a child; he never seems to realize that it is worse for me to wait in uncertainty.

Tyelkormo slipped in an hour ago; everyone was too busy with worry over the police to ask him where he had been. I do not know if anyone but me even noticed his arrival. He is sitting a few feet away from me now, his ear pressed to the floor planks, listening. He wants to know as badly as I do what has happened. What Arafinwë did. He does not seem to be the one who would get us in trouble, and yet he was. At least, that is what I could make out. My father says that it was not really his fault, that he is more to blame for what happened, but I do not know. He blames himself for everything now.

'Nelyo?' It is Findekáno, small and pale in the darkness. No one has bothered to turn on the light, even if no one is sleeping. Carnistir sits by the light, a shadow against the moonlit sky.

I move Makalaurë, and he murmurs in protest at the sudden start, but moves over to Tyelkormo and enfolds him in his embrace, stroking his loose hair. Tyelkormo hugs him back, muttering resentments against himself for his foolish behaviour. He seems to blame himself as well. Perhaps we all do. 'Yes?' I let him slide into place against my chest, his legs stretched out to my side, his arms around my neck. He has grown too large to hold in my lap like I used to when he was still a little child who laughed and blushed at the idea of kissing a maiden.

'What will happen now?' He looks up at me, his eyes brighter and sadder than I have seen in a long time, and his hands close tighter around me. He draws himself close, like a child. I pet his hair and his back, trying to think of an answer. None comes to me. 'I do not know,' I say. 'They have not told me yet what happened.'

'Arafinwë lost the money to pay the rent,' Tyelkormo snaps suddenly, breaking the whispers of before. 'Because he had to go and be so careless and flighty.'

Carnistir turns sharply away from the window, his eyes flashing. 'Whatever do you mean, Turko? No one gave _Arafinwë_ the money,' he draws our uncle's name out as if it could be an insult, and closes the sentence sharply. 'No one would trust him with it. He acts like one of the Vanyar; he talks like the Teleri. He is incapable of dealing with responsibilities such as that.'

'You do not know that,' says Findekáno suddenly, bristling against me. He tries to draw himself up to face my brothers, but I hold him tightly down, not wanting them to start a fight. 'He can manage a responsibility as well as your father or mine.'

With narrowed eyes and a poisoned tongue, Carnistir answers him. '_My_ father knows not to give your _little _Ara a responsibility bigger than his brain. _Your_ father however might have been stupid enough to think that he could handle something that is bigger than the little, wretched…'

'Do not insult my father or my uncle,' Findekáno hisses, twisting himself free of my embrace. He stands up at his full height, his hands clenched into fists against his sides. 'Or you will have to pay the price against my wrath and my vengeance.'

'You do terrify me,' Carnistir says, taking a step towards him, his voice balanced and his head high. 'I do not, however, make my claims without justification. I can see proof of your father's stupidity in the face and actions of his eldest son.'

I take Findekáno by the wrists and hold his arms firmly back, pressing his rigid body tight against mine. Energy and anger is writhing through it, and I can hear his breath coming fast and hot. Carnistir looks our cousin over with disdain where I hold him and opens his mouth.

'Not another word, Morifinwë,' Makalaurë says sternly, taking hold of our younger brother's arm. 'This is not the time for us to become divided amongst ourselves.' He draws Carnistir two steps back, glancing towards Tyelkormo for help. Tyelkormo does not move; he picks at a piece of lint on his pullover and looks away.

Carnistir tilts his head haughtily to the side. 'And I suppose that the only time for us to become divided amongst ourselves would be if someone actually killed someone?' He looks at me daringly. 'Because I would not mind volunteering my services in bringing that time about.'

'There will never be a time for us to be divided,' I reply. I can feel Findekáno relax slightly in my unrelenting grasp, but he is tight enough to spring up again at any moment. I do not release him.

'No,' retorts Carnistir. 'I suppose not in your eyes. Especially not if you think it wise to remain forever loyal even if someone were fool enough to loose the rent money that is keeping us from freezing in the winter's cold. What if the landlord gets angry? What if he decides to look into our past? How will we explain that? How will we explain coming from nowhere? How will we explain being no one? How will we explain…'

'Carnistir, that is quite enough,' I say firmly, my words sharper and heavier than I want them to be. 'Your questions do not have answers at the time, and are therefore unnecessary to ask.' Findekáno's breath is coming slower now, but it is deeper and quieter, a threatening breath.

I meet Makalaurë's eyes, and I know that he is as troubled as I am. His grip on Carnistir is not very firm, but my brother will not break free of him. He will not cause trouble between our families when I have told him not to, but the anger will not die from his eyes.

'Arafinwë _lost_ the money,' Carnistir growls. 'How careless and stupid does one unfortunate relative have to be before you will admit to it? He's a…'

'Be quite, Morifinwë Fëanorian,' Ñolofinwë says from the doorway, where he stands, tears bright in his eyes, suddenly filled with a blue fire that frightens me. 'I have heard enough of your slander against my brother. He is your uncle, you know. I expect you to remember that and respect him.' He takes Carnistir by the shoulder and pulls him around to face him. Carnistir tries to remain firm, but I can sense his uncertainty; Ñolofinwë frowns down at him. 'Not all greatness lies in strength.' He releases my brother quickly, and Carnistir takes a step backwards, his hand flying to his shoulder, smoothing his shirt. 'As it is, you do not know the truth.'

'What is the truth then?' I ask him, letting go of his son before his anger is turned on me for holding him against his will, but Findekáno does not move away from me when I release him. He reaches back to take my hand and reaches his other hand out to Makalaurë.

'What happened, Father?' he whispers.

Ñolofinwë looks down at the floorboards for a moment, seemingly thinking of a way to phrase whatever he has to say next. His pullover is halfway tucked into his pants, and he only has one wet sock on. He reaches down and pulls it off, walking out into the hall to put it in the laundry hamper.

Carnistir gives Tyelkormo a sharp look that he does not return, instead he draws his legs up against his chest and buries his face against his knees. Carnistir sighs and looks at me, silently asking me for some explanation for Ñolofinwë's behaviour. I give him none, but wait patiently for Ñolo to come back in.

'Are the children asleep?' he asks gently, sitting down on Carnistir's bed. It creaks menacingly under him. The whole room is menacing at the moment, though. Shadows fall threateningly over the two beds, one narrow and new, the other broad and iron, rusting with age. Curufinwë is curled up in it, his bright eyes watching us from just above the blood-red sheets; he does not answer.

'Curvo's awake,' Makalaurë says softly, touching the boy's black hair. 'The other children are upstairs, if you aren't counting Káno.'

Ñolofinwë looks over at his son and holds his arms out to him, inviting him to the warmth and safety that only a father's embrace can bring. 'Come, my little one,' he says, and Findekáno slips easily into his arms, resting his cheek against his father's.

'What happened then?' I ask stepping towards him, stopping only when my knee is flush against his thigh. I stand so high above him.

'He was robbed,' Ñolofinwë says very, very softly, 'on the street. Someone stole the money. I do not know who. We do not know.' He hangs his head suddenly, not looking at any of us, not meeting our eyes. ' It will be all right, Fëanáro will think of something.' He pauses, his voice dropping down so low that only Findekáno and I, standing so near to him that I can feel the anger and regret coursing through his body resonating in my own veins, can hear. 'At least, he said that he would.' He shakes his head. 'I do not know.'

'And the police?' Makalaurë asks, his voice suddenly high and frail. 'What of the police?'

Ñolofinwë raises his head to look at him, and he reaches out to touch his cheek, running his fingers along the gentle curve of his face. 'We will not tell them. If they begin to investigate, we are doomed.'

I hear a curse from behind me, and turn to see Tyelkormo as he walks out the door, slamming it heavily behind him. Curufinwë whimpers in his bed; sitting up to hold his hands out to the shut door, he begins to cry. 'Turko! Turko!' he calls after him, his little voice rising to hysterics.

Makalaurë swoops to his side and gathers him against his chest, stroking his hair and offering him comforting words that I cannot make out and that would probably make no sense to me if I could. He closes his eyes and starts to sing, but Curvo will not stop screaming.

Why am I plagued with thoughts of the past, thoughts of a time in the past, thoughts of a time I do not believe I could ever face again? I did not ask for them to come and haunt me, but they are in my mind, and I cannot forget them.

It was in the beginning of our time here, not long after my father brought us here with what can only be called an accident. He still will not tell me what he did, and I cannot make out what it was from the scattered bits of argument I hear amongst my parents and elder kin.

My father was so brave at that time, that I cannot help but feel proud of him, but he was also so foolish. If the knife had been any closer to the man's heart, he would have died; my father would have killed him. The police would have found out then, and we would have been doomed.

I can still see my father's face, bruised and bloodied, his eyes flashing and his teeth tight together. He held his fist upwards, the blade held up like a shining, silver, sixth finger. _You will never say that again_, he had hissed, his voice quick and flaming. _You will never call him that again. You will never touch him again, not so long as you live. Do you understand?_

He had nodded, his hand over the bloody spot on his white shirt, red blood dripping from between his pale fingers. He had not spoken to my father as he had slunk away down the dark street; he had not looked at me. Curvo had not stopped screaming.


	13. Chapter 13

Makalaurë

)()()()()()()()()(

The path is empty and cold, barren before me. Twisting madly through a tangle of naked trees, it disappears from my sight, leaving me with only the hope of an end to the mud and the ice that crunch and sink beneath my feet. Yet again I curse the lack of thought that drove me out into this frozen wilderness in a mad frenzy of unredeemed folly, forgetting my coat and hat on the peg by the door as my mind screamed and my feet plundered the earth. I dig my nails into my palms as I walk, my head bent against the wind. It has all gone wrong again.

_But does it not always go wrong?_ a quiet voice asks in my head, whispering to me so softly that I can barely hear it above the call of the wind that beats the trees together and lashes at my loose hair. _When has it ever gone right? _I have no answer for the question, at least no answer that I want to give.

_We left the last city quickly. My brother's cries still echo in my ears. Curufinwë had clung to Father so tightly the night that we fled that Father bled scarlet onto his tiny hands. Mother had warned him, but he had not listened to her. Father never listens. _

_They had liked his work. That was understandable. Who could not like Father's work? Who could not love it? But Father had not realized who they were. What they did. None of us had. Except for Mother._

'What are you doing out here, Kano? Don't you realize that everyone is worried about you?' Tyelkormo's voice is slightly hoarse, falling down to me on the wind.

I turn to see him standing a distance away from me on the top of a hill I cannot remember climbing down. It looks like a sheet of pure ice is running down it, and I close my eyes as my brother starts to descend.

_It was a larger city, much larger than the little one where we now live. I remember how dark it was, and yet bright even in the nighttime, with lights that flashed and swayed and moved constantly, making my head spin if I stepped out for a moment. I used to enjoy hearing the people calling and laughing with each other on the street. But there were so many more who shouted and screamed at one another, throwing about harsh words that I did not know the meaning of. Words that some used on me. _

'What are you doing out here?' Tyelkormo repeats. Taking a firm grasp on my arm, he turns me about to face him, and touches my cheek with his hand. 'You look sad.'

I am sad, I want to say, but I do not. It seems pointless to mention it when there is nothing that he can say to help. There are still no answers to last night. None, at least, that anyone will listen to. The money is gone, and money is too dangerous. I fold the letter over again in my hands, drawing the crease sharply, and shove it into my pocket. I know that my brother has seen it, but he does not ask me about it. Instead he places his hands on my waist, drawing me closer to him. I pull away.

'I'm all right, Turko.' Turning from him I continue down the icy path, keeping my eyes to the ground so that I will not have to see him. I do not want to hear him either, but I cannot keep his voice away from me, not even if I block my ears with my hands and sing as if I my voice must rise above the raging sea.

'Makalaurë, Makalaurë, you are not all right. None of us are this morning.' His arms encircle my waist from behind, pressing me back against him. His coat is open in the front, and he tries to draw me under it, his arms reaching up to entrap mine beneath them.

'Why do we always make the same mistakes?' I ask, looking up at the sky, so clear and blue that is seems to cry with beauty. 'Why do we always wind up on the wrong side of everything and everyone?'

He cannot take me under his coat with him; he knows that now and releases me, hastening to take his coat off to allow me to wear it. I know that he is about to offer it to me, thinking, perhaps, that I am cold and tired of the beating wind. But I am not.

'Keep it, Turko.' I press it back against him with my left hand, not taking my right out of my pocket. The letter is tickling my fingers, urging me to pull it out and open it and clasp it to my heart thanking it for the hope that it brings, or to tear it up and throw it away, letting the wind carry it from me and loose its message in the dead, tangled grass while I release all hope and sink in my despair to my knees in the cold mud. It threatens to cut my fingers.

'We don't,' he says, placing the coat over my shoulders, smoothing it out down my arms. 'Not the wrong side of everything.' He bites his lip.

'The law and the outlaws – we must fear both.'

He does not answer me for a moment, and when he does his words are slow and seem bitter. 'Father did not know that they operated on the black market.'

'And Arafinwë did not know that he was going to be robbed.' My words sound like acid, they tremble in the air for a moment before picking up heat and aiming themselves at him like a dart. He does not flinch.

'Exactly.'

'And we did not know that if we wanted to live in a country we did not want to live in we would have to have proper papers that are all too easy to forge for someone with our skill. Skills.' I can feel the mud starting to slide beneath my feet. 'Or that forging papers was very, very wrong and that one could go to prison for it if one was so careless that one was caught.'

'You do not have to be angry with me,' he says, almost taking his coat back. But he does not, and instead he tries to get my arm into one of the sleeves.

I jerk away from him and fling my hands up to keep him at a distance. 'Maitimo was nearly…'

'Don't say it.' His words are sharp now, as sharp as the knife that he keeps by his belt. 'Don't every say that, Kano.'

'Who are you to order me, Tyelkormo?'

'I am your brother, and I will not have you speaking scandal against your own family. Especially not Maitimo.' He pulls his coat on, zipping it up so quickly that his hand flies up and hits him on the chin when it reaches the top. He looks startled for a moment, but regains his composure.

'I am not bringing scandal against our family; I am just saying what might have happened.' I pick up my pace, stalking quickly up the steep hill ahead of us.

'We had no one else to turn to,' he calls after me, hesitating a moment before he starts to follow. 'They were the only ones who didn't ask questions!'

'Only because they wanted none asked themselves. We should never have trusted them, Turko, never.'

'We didn't trust them. We only agreed to treat with them. We needed money!' He is coming up behind me, but I am faster than him. He cannot catch me. 'We were starving! Don't you remember? Everyone was so scared. I was scared. Father was scared! You kept crying, Kano. I did not like to see you cry.'

The tears are burning my cheeks as they come. Hot for a moment they slide down, becoming slowly frozen as they cling to my skin. My pace is picking up now that I have reached the top of the hill, and I start down it faster, starting to run.

'What are you doing, Makalaurë?' I can hear him call after me, standing still on the top of the hill so far behind me now. 'Where are you going?' His voice is timid when he cries out again. 'Do not leave me here!'

I turn back to him. He is standing so still, the sunlight blazing upon him, his hair flashing. There are tears in his eyes that glitter again, like diamonds, on his cheeks. He holds his hands out towards me, open and empty, but weak at his sides.

We never realized that they were wrong, but they tried to kill Father. He nearly killed them. What would the police do to us if we were found? What terrors would they invent for us to suffer?We stand in danger, wrong on one side, right on the other, and we must beware of both.

And we need money.

'_Kano, come back, please.' _


	14. Chapter 14

Makalaurë

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What else can I do but turn back? This path only leads to some forgotten graveyard that Maitimo likes to visit when he is trying to escape us. But I do not want to go there where those markers, of death and people that once were stand, crooked and silent beneath the beaten trees. My feet, I realize slowly, are cold, and the wet mud has soaked them so that the blue tennis shoes I wear appear black beside the white ice.

'Kano,' Tyelkormo calls out again, his voice now a whisper. Dropping his hands back to his sides, he turns away, giving up on me.

Without answering I start back up the hill; he does not move, nor does he speak. His shoulders droop slightly, but his back is straight, and his hands are closed in fists against his thighs. Undoubtedly he can hear me coming, my breath and my heartbeat sound so loud at the moment, echoing forever in the hills. Stopping just behind him, I wait for him to speak.

'I am so sorry,' he finally says, not lifting his head, not raising his voice. 'Dear God, I am so sorry.' He is not speaking to me. His breath shudders, and his body shakes. 'I did not know. I simply did not know.'

'Little brother?'

Still he will not turn to me; he will not face me. Although he asked just moments ago for me to come back to him, he will not speak to me now. His voice is trembling, but he does not weep.

Should I turn him to me and demand an explanation, scolding him for his strange behaviour and poor timing, I wonder, closing my eyes so that I will not have to see or try to understand him for the moment. I do not scold him; I do not speak to him. My feet are cold.

'I was such a fool,' he says suddenly, his voice loud and brave against the wind. He turns sharply to face me; his eyes are narrowed, almost daring me to question him, so I say nothing. 'You were right, of course, Kano,' he continues, stepping closer to me. His nose is almost touching mine. 'We do make the same mistakes. Again and again and again we make them, and we never learn. We do not want to learn, I suppose. I didn't.'

A cloud passes over the morning sun, cutting off the pale light for a moment. There had been no clouds just a few minutes ago when the sky rose above me bluer than Angaráto's eyes. Now I turn to the north where a dark army of clouds marches in from the horizon, speeding along on the wind.

'I trusted them again. The outlaws.' He laughs lightly, but it turns into a scoff, aimed, certainly at himself. 'I thought that they might not be as wrong here as they were there. They seemed better.'

'What are you talking about, Turko?' I ask suddenly, startled from my self-imposed silence by his queer words.

He steps away from me, and the little space between us seems impenetrable. There is something that he is holding from me, something that he does not want to answer. And it is wrong. Without speaking, he draws his sleeve up, baring his arm almost to the shoulder. There is a sword on it, rising from flames that leap up to the hilt. 'I joined a gang, Kano.'

'A gang,' I repeat, tasting the word; it is sharp and slightly bitter.

'We do bad things.' He starts to push his sleeve back down, but I reach out and stop him. Touching his skin where the picture rests, I feel my breath stop for a moment.

'Does it come off?'

'It's not supposed to.' Almost angrily he pulls his sleeve back into place and rubs the cuff down over his wrist. 'Sometimes,' he whispers, 'I think that if I don't think about it, it will go away.'

'Then, you do not want it?'

'I thought they were worth it,' he answers, turning his back to me as he folds his arms.

I step towards him, resting my hand on his shoulder, pulling gently at the few pieces of hair that have made their escape from his braid. 'And they were not?'

Now he does laugh, but it is an angry laugh aimed at the ground and his feet; he scuffs at the dirt where it landed, burying it perhaps. 'They stole our bloody money,' he says, shoving his heel down into the thick mud. 'That's why I was gone last night; I did not know.' He raises his head now, and his eyes are bright with fury. 'I could not stop them.'

'You robbed us?' I repeat, my voice rising suddenly with resentment. 'Is that what you are trying to tell me, Tyelkormo?' I dig my fingers into his shoulders, half forcing the answer from him, half supporting myself against his sturdy frame. I remember his angry words at himself last night, but he called Arafinwë careless to us. I remember he embraced me.

'No, I didn't. I learned what they were planning, and I tried to stop them. But they wouldn't listen. I suppose they thought I was a coward. That's what they called me.'

I pull him around to face me. 'You walked away and let them _rob_ your uncle?' I demand, holding him still and tight. 'Tyelkormo, if this is what you are saying…' The sentence falls lamely; the threat remains unspoken. I am too tired and confused to continue berating him. It already happened; there is nothing that can change that.

'The tattoo, how long have you had it?' I ask, even though it seems to be the least important thing that I could say at the moment besides commenting on how it feels as if it were going to snow.

'Only a week.'

'Has Carnistir seen it?'

'Yes.'

Of course he has. Carnistir sees every square inch of Tyelkormo's body on a fairly regular basis unless he taken to showering with his eyes closed. I cover my face with my hand, not looking at Tyelkormo. Watching me, he says nothing.

'What about the girl?' I ask finally, searching about me for some place to sit down, but there is nowhere that I can see.

He blinks for a moment, trying to pull his thoughts together. 'What girl?'

'Margaret. Your friend, Margaret. The one who loves you? That girl. Does she know?'

'Know about what?'

'That you are in a gang.'

'Was in a gang,' he corrects me, tucking his hands into his pockets. 'They disowned me.'

I look up at him, searching his eyes. 'That's better than your family disowning you.'

A sudden look of fear crosses his face, and he frowns. 'You aren't going to tell, Kano?' He reaches out to me and touches my hair, brushing it back behind my ear, smoothing it.

I hold his hand against my head, stopping it there. 'Do I look like I would tell, Turkafinwë?'

He studies my face in this silence, my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth. Tracing his finger over my lips, he shakes his head, pressing his finger against me. 'No, you don't. Shhh, Kano.'

I kiss his finger, ever so slightly, before starting away from him. 'You're right,' I call back to him as I make my way down the hill towards our home. 'I won't tell on you. I never could.'

'Wait, Kano,' he cries after me, following me down, 'what about the letter you had. You didn't tell me about the letter.'

'You didn't ask, my fine robber,' I say, steadying myself as the mud threatens to pull me down.

'I am not a robber,' he flings back, sounding very cross and somewhat hurt. 'I told you; I left them. Now, the letter!'

'No, you told me they disowned you. That's very different, Turko, very different. Besides, you didn't answer my question, why should I answer yours?'

'What question didn't I answer?' He has caught up with me; I can see him striding along by my side, feel his sharp eyes on me.

'The one about Margaret. Does she know?'

He slows down a little, forcing me to as well, if I want to hear his answer. It seems unbearably cold to be walking so slowly.

'Yes, she knows,' he murmurs. 'She…' He laughs again. That laugh is beginning to wear on me; I want to order him to stop. 'She wanted me to.'

'And I suppose Robert Ashfield wanted you to join too?' The words are cruel and accusing, but I do not care.

'Yes, he is…' That laugh again. 'A member.'

'She is too, no doubt.'

'I'm sorry, Kano. You must think I pick horrible friends.'

The words stop me, and I struggle to find a way to say what I feel. It is useless to even try. 'Yes,' I say instead, but that sounds as good as anything else I could have shot at him.

He just bows his head when he hears it, and we walk along in relative silence. The wind picks up, blowing against us, trying to hold us back. I press on despite it, ignoring the icy blasts that cut through my thin layers of clothes and rip at my skin. My blood is burning enough to keep me warm.

Tyelkormo is watching me again, assuredly waiting to say something.

'What?' I ask, managing somehow to keep my voice at a reasonable level.

'I suppose you don't want to tell me about the letter now?' he asks rather timidly, although he knows that I probably will not swing on him and slap him.

'No,' I say, 'I do not. I want to go home and change my clothes and get something to eat and talk to Nelyo about the letter.' I take his hand in mine as he starts to lag behind; I do not want to loose him.

'Why do you want to talk to Nelyo?' he asks, his voice so quiet it almost seems that he does not want me to hear him.

'Because I love and trust him,' I say.

'And you do not love and trust me?' His question is very slow.

I squeeze his hand tightly, but I can think of nothing to say. The wind lashes about us faster, and clouds pile up over each other to block the sky. I sigh softly. 'Look, Turko…' The wind wails in my ears and the sharp scent of cold surrounds me. I lick my lip uncertainly. 'It feels as if it were going to snow.'

)()()()()()()()()(

'Can it wait?' Maitimo asks me as soon as I place my hand on his arm and open my mouth. He is holding a cranky Aikanáro in his arms and shifts him impatiently to straddle his hip. Glancing about the room, he turns back to me. 'Have you seen Findekáno?'

'No,' I answer, shaking my head. My hand slips up nervously to my mouth, and I hold it there, waiting.

He grumbles something impatiently and hoists Aikanáro higher, patting his bottom a couple times to steady him.

'Nelyo,' I try again, 'I have a letter from…'

'Kano, darling,' he interrupts, 'I can't talk about it right now. I have things to do.'

Tyelkormo has come in behind me, and he looks about our distressed household guiltily. I can understand why, and find myself wondering if he will tell our parents what he did, or did not do. He hangs his coat up without a word and disappears up the stairs.

From sorting through envelopes, Maitimo looks up at me suddenly. 'Where were you anyway?' he asks, tearing a piece of paper sharply down the centre. 'You weren't at breakfast.'

'I went out,' I say. 'It was too hot inside.'

'And it's too cold outside,' he rejoins. 'You ought to take your clothes off,' he adds, looking me over. 'You're soaked and dirty.' Aikanáro clings to him tighter as he steps towards me. 'There, there,' he murmurs, stroking the boy's golden hair. 'Your father's all right now.'

I reach out to touch my little cousin's cheek; it is wet with tears. 'Do you want me to hold him?' I offer.

'No, you'll just get him wet and cold,' Maitimo says sensibly. 'You really ought to go bathe, and get something to eat; I'm worried about you.'

I nod and shove the letter back into my pocket. 'Of course.'


	15. Chapter 15

Makalaurë

)()()()()()()()()(

Father's back is to me when I creep into his room, fresh from the bath that I got to enjoy on my own for once. I have not bothered to dress yet, so I stand in the doorway with only a bathrobe pulled tightly closed about me.

Kneeling by the bed, Father is scribbling onto sheets of paper that he has piled on top of a book that rocks as his hand moves. As his hand flies over the sheets, he scarcely glances at them and throws them down, without a second thought, to the floor beside him once they are filled. Curufinwë sits huddled in one corner of the room, his back pressed against the blue floral wallpaper, his knees up hiding the book that he reads greedily.

'Father?' I start, casting a quick glare at Curufinwë to try to get him to leave. He does not even glance up when I look at him, however, and turns another page, his eyes wide. Father does not look up either. 'Father?' I say again, louder this time.

He turns to me suddenly as I step into the room, flinging his loose hair off his face with the back of his hand. 'Yes, Makalaurë?' He runs his tongue over my name, as if he enjoys pronouncing it.

'I need to talk to you.' I shoot a quick glare at Curufinwë, but he simply glances up at me for a moment and then turns all his attention back to his precious book. He does not want to be moved.

'Can it wait?' Father asks, twisting his pen importantly.

'No.' I do not take my eyes off Curufinwë as I answer, trying to make my glare more ominous.

Following my gaze, Father tilts his head slowly to the left. 'Curvo,' he calls, 'why don't you run off now?'

Curufinwë widens his eyes as large as he can make them. 'I'm reading, Father,' he protests, pouting innocently.

Father pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. 'What are you reading, baby?' he asks as he opens them again.

'A book.'

'I know bloody well that you are reading a book,' Father snaps, frustrated already. 'What bloody book are you reading?'

'This one,' Curvo answers, holding up the book he has been hiding almost proudly. It is thick and looks rather too large for him.

Father leans his head back to look up at me; he seems worn and tired. 'He's reading.'

Frustrated I march across the room and confiscate the book from my little brother. 'Have you been paying any attention to just what he has been reading?' I ask, handing the book to Father.

Silently Father turns it over and reads the cover. _Under the Dome_ Stephen King A Novel. He turns it over again, glancing at the back. 'Hmm,' he says. He opens it, darting over the initial pages and then flipping randomly through the rest of it. He puts it down. 'Curvo.' His voice is stern and commanding.

Curufinwë gets up from his corner, glaring sharply at me as he walks over to Father, his head low in submission. 'Yes, Father?' he almost whimpers.

'I do not want you reading books like that,' Father says calmly. 'I do not think they are good for you and your developing mind.' He taps his finger against the book and shakes his head as he speaks so that Curvo can understand what he is saying.

'But Father, everyone at school talks about him,' Curufinwë protests, trying his childish seduction once more. He presses up against Father, purring a little.

But Father will have none of that. 'I really do not care who talks about what where,' he says sharply. 'You will listen to what I say, not what they do.' He holds him out at arm's length. 'Now, who wants a spanking?'

'Makalaurë?' Curufinwë whispers hopefully.

Father shakes his head and presses Curufinwë up against the side of the bed, his back to him. 'Turn around, Kano,' he says.

For a moment I wonder if Father is going to listen to my younger brother, but I turn around anyway. A moment later I hear the little thud that the book makes against Curufinwë's bottom. Father does not hit him hard.

'There,' I can hear him say. 'Now run off and don't read things like this again. It will destroy your mind.'

Curufinwë sulks past me, shooting me a dirty look as he slinks out the door.

Father gets to his feet for the first time since I entered and places the book down on the dresser. 'I don't understand what is happening to our family,' he says, more to himself than to me. 'At the rate things are going, it's a surprise someone hasn't joined a gang.'

The words make me jump as I close the door behind me.

Apparently he does not notice, for he turns to me with a slight smile. 'What brings you here, Makalaurë?' he asks, beckoning me nearer.

Crossing the room to stand by him, I reach into my pocket for the letter, wondering desperately how to bring it up. I wish that I had had time to speak to Maitimo; it would have made things so much easier if I knew what he thought and what he would say. A quick slap on my bottom startles me from my musings, and I jump again, looking at Father who has just seated himself on the bed.

'You shouldn't be so glad to turn your brother in for punishment,' he says in way of explanation, a slightly mischievous smile crossing his face. He pats the bed beside him. 'Sit down.'

With a sigh I sink into place, crossing my bare legs at the ankles. He looks down at my feet and smiles, noticing my attire for the first time. Perhaps he just noticed me as well. He tugs a little dangerously on the belt, and I fling my arms up instinctively to protect myself. Sliding his arms about my waist as I do so, he pulls me tightly against him, drawing my legs up across his lap, and burying his face against the side of my neck. 'Oh, my baby. My little singing boy.' He runs his hand underneath my wet hair. Do parents never want their children to grow up?

'Father, I have to speak to you.'

'So you said.'

'It is very important. I mean, to me, it is very important. That is, it is very important to you too. I mean, if you thought that I was important it would be important to you if. What I am trying to say is…'

'What?' He stops kissing me the way he has been, up and down the side of my face, against my ear, consoling himself with whatever comfort that gives him, like that strange man in the show that we watched last year around this time and are scheduled to watch again. The show was about an angel who had no wings, and none of the bells that rang through the whole show could give him any. At least, that is what I remember.

I simply hand him the letter.

Time stops as he takes it and reads it, frowns and reads it again. Three, four, five times over. His lips twitch as he reads it, saying the words silently to himself. Six, seven, eight. How many times can one read a letter? I close my eyes so that I will not have to see his narrowed eyes, his drawn brows, those twitching lips.

'Well?' he says finally when the whole world seems already to have played its course and history to have come to its end.

'Well what?'

'Do you want to go?' He places the letter down on my lap, smoothing it against my robe. He does not look at me, just at the clean sheet of white paper with small black letters marching in neat lines across it looking innocent enough.

'It pays well.'

'I am not asking you about the money.'

I lift my head slowly, and he does the same. Our eyes meet, and I search his. They are so bright, so curious. There is something that he wants to know that only I can answer. He waits for me to speak.

'Yes, Father, I do.' I do not drop my head; I cannot break his gaze.

'The opera,' he says to himself, savouring the word in his mouth like some new wine. 'My little singing boy wants to sing in an opera.'

'I auditioned,' I admit, now looking away from him. 'I did not tell anyway; I just auditioned. They say they have never heard a voice like mine; they say they…'

'I read the letter, Kano,' he says, smiling slightly. 'I know what they say. And they are right; your voice is beautiful.' He licks his lips, his teeth. 'It would be a shame to hide it.'

'Then I can go?'

He smiles sadly. 'I shall talk to Nerdanel.'


	16. Chapter 16

Findekáno

)()()()()()()()()(

'What are you doing, Findekáno?'

Every time I turn around there is a little child asking me something. I can never escape the little feet and the little voices and the little hands that tangle up with mine to see if they can hold a pen like I do, slice an apple like I do, paint a picture like I do.

'I'm writing,' I answer, moving my pen pointlessly along the page to prove my point.

Little feet move closer. 'What are you writing, Findekáno?' Tiny little hands are on my arm, a little head peeps down at the book on my lap. 'Is it very important?'

'It's my diary,' I answer, doodling a little picture of a flower in the margin.

'Oh, your diary,' the little voice says, suddenly very excited. 'Do you write about me in there?'

'Mmm-hmm, I write about all the naughty things you do that annoy me,' I say, pulling at Irissë's dark hair.

She looks up indignantly. 'You don't.'

'Sure I do, and I find lots to write.' I flip through the few pages I have filled impressively.

She frowns. 'I must not do a lot of naughty things,' she says, looking at the empty half of the book, which is considerably larger.

I smile and lift her onto my lap where she nestles against my chest and turns the pages of the book importantly. 'You wrote about Nelyo,' she says, touching his name where it is inked on the page. 'What did he do that was so naughty?' Her eyes shine with anticipation.

With a laugh I kiss the top of her head. 'Nothing dear, it isn't a bad deeds log." I draw her back, closer to me, and start to rock her.

'What is it then?' she asks, tilting her head back to study my face. She looks dreadfully curious, and her eyes shine brightly from beneath her curling lashes.

'It's…' I pause, trying to think of a way to explain it. 'It's where I write my memories. What happened, and how I felt about it.'

'Don't you remember?' she asks, nibbling on her bottom lip as she always does when she is thinking hard.

'Usually, but writing it out helps me to…understand things better.' I touch Maitimo's name, reading the sentence around it. _Nelyo laughed when I dropped it._ 'And it's not just for me; it's for Arakáno.'

'You write your diary for Arakáno?' she repeats back, popping her little braid out of her mouth for a moment.

'Yes, so that he will understand things better when he grows older,' I answer. My hands close tighter on her as I think of growing, of time passing, of whatever will happen when hundreds of years have passed and the world about us has changed a thousand times over and we have not even begun to.

She squirms in my arms. 'You're squeezing me.' She feels so soft in my arms, and yet there is something about her that seems hard to break. She is a resilient girl, already showing that she will be tough and strong willed like most of our family.

I kiss her again, lingering for a moment over her hair, which smells sweet, like flowers. 'I'm sorry. Do you want to go now?'

Nodding she clambers from my arms and straightens out her white dress. She pats me on the top of the head. 'Be a good boy, Káno,' she instructs before she trots away across the wooden floor.

'I will.'

'Káno?'

I look up; she is standing thoughtfully by the door. 'Yes?'

'Would you write me a diary?'

'I would, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at keeping even one. Sorry'

'Oh.' But she smiles again. 'That's all right. I'll just ask Turu.' She disappears from my sight without another word.

And words are now all that I have left. Words that march across the page like neat little sentinels, keeping straight and silent beside each other as they scream out my life at me. The last sentence that I wrote ends abruptly, followed by the little marks that I made when I was trying to show that I was writing. It will never have an end now. Arakáno will always have to wonder. I seize the pen tightly and write in beneath the scribbles:

_Fëanáro brought us here, but I do not know how, and neither does he. We shall never go back__**.**_The period after the last word is heavy, and my hand smudges it as I shut the book on the fresh ink. But that does not matter; it has been written, now I have to accept it somehow.

)()()()()()()()()(

'Dance with me, Káno?' Carnistir is standing before me, holding his hand out to me. The living room is darkened, lit only by the Christmas tree, and the shadows cross it strangely, wavering around me.

'Dance with you?' I repeat slowly, looking again at his open hand; he wiggles his fingers invitingly.

'Why not? There's music; there's space; there's nothing better to do.'

'You don't like me.'

He raises his eyebrows slightly and pulls me to my feet, placing one hand on my waist and taking one of my hands with the other. 'Whoever said that?'

'You did.'

He begins to waltz me about the room to Bonnie Raitt's _I Can't Make You Love Me_, another older song on the radio station Tyelkormo enjoys so much. I can see him out of the corner of my eye brooding on the sofa, one of the Ambarussas asleep in his arms; I cannot tell who it is.

'Did I?' He tilts his head to one side, studying my face. 'Yes, I probably did. But that doesn't mean anything, does it?'

'You were calling my father and me stupid just last night,' I shoot back. 'You said you wanted our families to be divided, remember?' I purpose to imitate his voice, which is a tad deeper than mine and usually sounds as if he were speaking from the front of his throat. '"And I suppose that the only time for us to become divided amongst ourselves would be if someone actually killed someone? Because I would not mind volunteering my services in bringing that time about.'" I look at him accusingly.

'I was angry, Káno,' he says, leading me back across the floor as we reach one wall.

I narrow my eyes, trying to read his thoughts. 'Is this an apology?' The song croons on: _And I can't make you love me if you won't; you can't make your heart feel something it don't._

He twirls me about slowly on the end of his arm and draws me back in. 'You can take it as one if that would make you feel better.'

'I do not know if it would, Moryo,' I answer, lowering my eyes. His feet are bare beneath his black jeans.

'Why not? Do you want to stay mad at me?'

I break free of him and walk across the room to look out the window. Snow is piling up quickly in the yard, and the wind presses it in small drifts up against the pane. 'Perhaps.'

'Why?' He touches my arm from behind. 'Is what I said that bad?'

'You insulted my family and volunteered to kill one of us. Do you question if that is _bad?_' I close the curtains on the storm, even if I can still see the snow flickering in the streetlamps from behind the sheer panels.

'I cannot even remember what I said, Findekáno,' he sighs, and I know it is the truth.

Turning back around, I look at him. He seems sad; even in the dim light, I can see the pain in his eyes. Saying nothing, I slide back into his arms, and we resume out waltz.

'Are you going to be angry with me forever now?' he asks after some time, sounding almost as if that would not matter.

'No, but it would help if you actually say it,' I answer firmly.

He blinks, startled; his top lip curls up slightly. 'Say what?'

I give him a sharp look as he leads me to the right, directly past Tyelkormo who shoots us an irritated look. 'You're trying to make me say it first.'

His eyes light up a little with some sort of evil pleasure. 'I know.'

'You say it.' I give him the pout that always works on Maitimo, widening my eyes for added emphasis.

He gives me an equally innocent look. 'Say _what?_'

One look at his face, and I cannot help but laugh, a low, half-embarassed laugh. 'Apologize, you idiot,' I order, punching him lightly in the ribs.

He grins, biting his bottom lip. 'Sorry, stupid.'

I roll my eyes. 'Apology accepted.'

He smiles back a little goofily as the song on the radio changes.

'Oh. No,' I say as the beat picks up, trying to pull myself free of him. 'I am _not _dancing to this.'

'Why not?' he asks, his eyes flashing mischievously. 'It's better than that dragging serenade.' He swings his shoulders as his feet speed up to the music, pulling me along with him. 'Come now, you can even sing along.' He grins again.

'I am _not_ singing,' I retort. 'I'm not even dancing.' I twist lithely about as I almost collide with the sofa.

'So what exactly are you doing?' He asks, looking down at my dancing feet, keeping time with his. 'Exercising?'

_'Ai!_' I have no other words to fight against his. The music swells as a brooding Tyelkormo turns the volume up before settling back down to glare at his hands. It fills the whole room as Joan Jett belts out her song: _Oh I hate myself for loving you. I can't break free of the things that you do; I want to walk but I run back to you. Oh I hate myself for loving you._

'I suppose I am dancing, Moryo,' I say, his name becoming a gasp as he swings me forward sharply to keep me from dancing backwards into a rather bemused Fëanáro who has just stepped into the room. Carnistir grins as I feel blood rush to my cheeks; I glare at him. 'Beast.'

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Yes, I am crazy, but thank-you for your concern.<em>


	17. Chapter 17

Findekáno

)()()()()()()()()(

It does not feel like Christmas Eve, the day that everyone thinks so highly of. I remember last year how we whispered secrets to each other as we sat gathered close, trying to sort out their holiday in our heads. Findaráto was explaining the story of the first Christmas to us with great interest, his hands dancing with his light voice. I had listened to him in silence, his little brothers piled about me, Aikanáro resting his head on my lap and Angaráto nestled by my side. We had laughed and sung as the evening grew late, nibbling on sweets and rich chocolates.

It is so quiet this evening, and anxiety still fills the house. No one knows what will happen next or if we will leave and, if so, where we would go. I overheard Nerdanel talking to Mother; she said that she thought Fëanáro might want to go. 'He is very restless,' she said. Now no one knows where we will get money to pay rent, and if we cannot pay, we will have no choice but to move on. We have been to so many places, and none of them, not even here, where we have stayed the longest, feels like home. I would not mind moving on, so long as I was not separated from my family. They are my home.

'What are you thinking about, Finde?' Findaráto asks me quietly, pulling on one of my braids; he twists it about so that the gold I braided into it earlier flashes in the coloured lights of the Christmas tree.

'Last year,' I answer, trying to think of something cheerful to bring up to brighten the sombre mood. 'Do you remember how Telvo put a big bow around Huan's neck?'

He smiles softly. 'How could I forget? Tyelkormo spent the rest of the day scolding him about respecting animals.'

'The funny thing is that Huan didn't really mind,' I say with a smile. 'They put bows on anything and everything, though, those two.' I sigh. 'Irissë got her locket last year.'

'She hasn't taken it off since,' he says. 'She even wears it bathing.' He drops my braid and sits down by the tree, aimlessly rearranging a few of the beautifully wrapped packages. Amarië comes in from the kitchen, tying back her damp hair with a blue ribbon. His eyes light up when he sees her, and she goes to sit by him and give him a kiss.

'We should put up mistletoe,' I say, looking up at the plain white ceiling only saved from nakedness by a few paper snowflakes covered with sparkles that sway on their little strings with every breath or passing person.

'I'd love mistletoe,' says Findaráto between kisses. Amarië nods and decks his hair with tinsel.

I throw a wad of unused wrapping paper at them. 'You don't need mistletoe,' I tease, watching with amusement as the paper misses my target of Findaráto's head and bounces off Amarië's arm.

She picks it up and throws it back at me. With a grin, I catch it and unfold it. 'Oh, look, Findaráto,' I say, 'she wrote me a love note.'

'She did no such thing,' Findaráto laughs lightly, his mood suddenly lifting. 'She is not in love with you; she is really madly in love with…your brother, Turukáno!'

Amarië looks relatively surprised. 'Findaráto?' She lays her hands on his arm.

He assumes a look of distress and frustration. 'Oh, Amarië! How could you do that to me! Leave me for my own cousin!' He clasps her hands in his. 'I thought that you loved me.'

'I do love you, silly,' she says. 'Now stop being such a nuisance with your games.' She kisses him again, sliding her arms around his neck; he draws her against him, kissing her back eagerly.

'Ah, my two dear love birds,' I say wickedly, 'did you not realize that you were supposed to perch _in_ the tree and not under it?'

They refuse to break their kiss to answer me, so I pick up Findaráto's trusted camera and fiddle with it, adjusting the settings. 'Perfect,' I whisper to myself after the third shot. It is a picture that will go quite proudly in the family album. Turning off the camera, I set it down, only then noticing that Arafinwë is bending over me.

'Hello,' he says, 'are you playing chaperone?' He waits for me to scoot over before sitting down in the chair beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

'Happy Christmas Eve, Father,' Findaráto chirps, flashing him a smile before putting his arms back around Amarië's neck and simply swaying with her.

He and Amarië look like presents themselves nestled under the tree, their golden hair glistening together like bright ribbons. I can feel Arafinwë's pride surging from his body and surrounding me. 'And to you,' he tells them.

With time passing gently, I nestle my head against my uncle's shoulder. The room smells of pine and cinnamon, a scent that rises from the kitchen and wafts its way towards us. I breathe it in.

'What's that?' I ask, not lifting my head up.

'Cinnamon rolls,' says Arafinwë sleepily. 'Don't they smell good?' He takes my hand in his and squeezes it.

'They smell delicious.' The tree's lights are blurry when I half close my eyes, and the ornaments sparkle where they hang in the full branches. There are no other lights on save for the candles that stand about, flickering peacefully as they cast wavering golden light about them. I draw myself closer to Arafinwë, putting my arms around him. He smells good too, like cloves and oranges. 'Have you been making punch?' I whisper.

He nods. 'With Ñolo.' Gently he kisses the top of my head. 'I remember when you were a baby.'

I look up at him; his soft blue eyes are half closed, and he has a tired smile on his heart-shaped face. 'Do you, Ara?'

'Yes, I was waiting with Ñolo the night you were born. I got to hold you that night, and you smiled at me.' He rubs my arm.

'That's good, Ara. I was probably very happy to see you.' I smile thinking about how, when I was little, I used to make the mistake of calling Arafinwë 'Father'; it always made him smile, half proudly, half with embarrassment. Father did not mind, so I felt no need to stop it either. I called him Father right up to the day when Maitimo so graciously instructed me on what a father was and how one got to be one. But the tradition still continues in our family, and even now it is not uncommon for Aikanáro to bound over to my father jumping up and down as he exclaims, 'Guess what I learned to do, Father! Guess!'

Anairë and Ëarwen come in from the kitchen chattering together about their daughters and the beautiful dresses they put them in for the holiday. Artanis trails after them in her dress, a soft green velvet one with white lace on the neck and sleeves, and green plastic gems that glitter over the skirt. Some of her hair is pulled back into a small bun, and the rest of it falls down into curls about her shoulders and down her back. She twirls around in front of her father, smiling at him shyly.

'Oh, Artanith,' he says, drawing her up into his arms so that he can kiss her. 'You look simply beautiful.'

She smiles back, her eyes growing wide with joy and kisses him. 'You do too, Father,' she says happily.

'Is that my little Artanith?' Findaráto asks from beneath the tree. 'Oh, come here, my little love and let me see you.'

Arafinwë puts her down, and she dances across the floor to her brother, holding the skirt out with her hands and then letting it go so that it twirls about her legs, sparkling madly. Findaráto takes her into his arms, and she leans against him contentedly, giving Amarië one jealous look before settling herself against her brother's chest.

A little reluctantly I get to my feet since Ëarwen has come to stand by the chair, and I know that she probably wants to sit with her husband. He takes her into his arms as soon as I get up, and she sits on his lap, nuzzling against his neck.

Leaving them together, I go over to mother who has sat down on the arm of the sofa and is watching the scene with a smile and a cup of tea.

'Where is Father?' I ask her, taking her cup and stealing a sip of the sweet, warm liquid.

'He's up with Fëanáro and Nerdanel,' she answers. 'Talking about something or other; I don't really know.' She takes the cup back and sips from it with the air of someone who knows a great deal more than she will ever reveal.

'Do you know where Makalaurë is?' I ask her, leaning against the sofa and looking about the room. Most of the Fëanorians are gathered about either in the living room or the kitchen; in fact, I see all of my cousins and siblings except for Makalaurë whose absence is dampening. He is supposed to lead the music.

'He's up in his room,' she says. 'Why don't you go find him while I think of something that will lift everyone's minds from money and rent, if only for a while?' She runs her fingers over the cups rim, contemplating. 'Go on, dear.'

)()()()()()()()()(

Makalaurë is lying on his bed when I come up the stairs, his shirt lying in a crumple heap beside him. He holds a sheet of paper in his hands, twisting it about occasionally, folding and opening it numbly. His hair is loose and falls in a shimmering mess to his shoulders; he must have just had it cut. He is humming to himself, a sad, old song that I can recall from my cradle days.

Steady from the small lone lamp, my shadow falls across him, growing lower, it seems, over his tight red pants and white shirt. It blocks the light that was shining on his hair.

'Am I missed from the gaiety?' he asks slowly, folding the paper into a tiny, tight square, holding it so that it looks like a diamond against one finger. 'Or has my father summoned me to pronounce his doom?' Shoving the paper under his pillow he rises to his feet, watching me in the gloom.

'We forgot to decorate the attic,' I mumble, which is not a real answer.

'Quite.' He smiles, that slightly sad smile that reminds me so much of his mother. 'Does Maitimo miss me?'

'Of course he does, he wants to hear you sing.' I offer my hand to him, and he takes it, holding it lightly as if it were a flower that might break.

'Sing,' he repeats, musing over the word as if he has never heard it before. 'Fancy that.'

'Makalaurë?' I am worried about him; he looks so lost and alone, as if he were standing on cliff contemplating about throwing himself off it or wandering through a dark forest with no way of knowing which way to turn.

'Yes?' He smiles at me, sadly, kindly, like an old dying man who is shown his grandchild. There is a movie I saw where that happened; it made me cry.

'What is bothering you?'

He gives me no answer, but puts his arm about my shoulders, steering me towards the trap door.

'It's funny,' he tells me as we descend the ladder, I first and he following, 'but I really cannot say.'


	18. Chapter 18

Findekáno

)()()()()()()()()(

I cannot concentrate on the movie; _It's A Wonderful Life_ seems a strangely inept title at the moment, too certain, to fixed, letting you know the point of the story even before you watch it. Nothing that happens in the film seems to have a purpose anyway; it all just some contrived story that has no relevance to anyone's life. And there are too many questions I need answered to enjoy it. We are all upset and distressed, but we are trying to hide it, and Fëanáro insisted that we watch this movie. I do not know why we must always listen to him.

Makalaurë is more fidgety than I am, he keeps glancing at his father or mother or one or other of his brothers, fidgeting with his belt. I wonder what it is that is troubling him. But he will not speak to me while we are watching a movie, and he does not leave, just sits by himself on the arm of the sofa, his long leg impatiently kicking the side.

Maitimo is sitting on the floor by my side watching the movie, which is playing on Fëanáro's laptop, with some interest. Pulling apart a cinnamon roll and eating it piece by piece, he keeps his face from me. I bite angrily into my roll, but calm down enough to savour the sweet, soft bread and delicate spice. Oddly I can never stay angry enough not to notice what I am eating.

The time is passing very slowly. Why does Fëanáro insist that we do everything on holidays according to that red book? _American Holidays and Traditions._ _American Handcuffs and Torments_ would be a more apt title at the rate things are going. I lean back against the sofa, just beside my father's legs, my arms folded. Maybe if I make a display of being oppressed I will be dismissed from watching the movie. Unfortunately, no one seems to be paying me the least bit of attention.

I spend this wasted time looking at the Christmas tree. It is very beautiful this year with the various ornaments that have been collected neatly arranged and the straight rows of lights Fëanáro spent hours lining up correctly. I suddenly have half an urge to get up and disarrange them, but I do not. I would not want my uncle getting upset with me on Christmas Eve; he would just end up mad at my father for not raising me properly. Still it seems that this movie will never end; we have not even got to the part where the incompetent angel comes along to set his life right. I have been watching this movie for forever, and I still do not know his name. _George Bailey_ the computer blares. Ah, yes, that was it. Pity I did not want to know.

Of a sudden, Aikanáro giggles madly from where he is pressed by my side; Angaráto sits on my other side, casting his younger brother slightly jealous looks. I realize suddenly that I am absently stroking Aikanáro's hair but not Angaráto's. Automatically I begin to pat his hair too as some line from the movie I missed sets both of them off into another fit of giggles. Irissë kicks at Angaráto from where she sits above him, on her father's lap, a strong kick for white lace tights coming from a fluffy white skirt, but he only laughs more and tickles her foot. This movie will never end.

)()()()()()()()()(

It is very late now that the movie is over; my empty glass of punch, which has already been filled three times, sits by my elbow, a used napkin pressed inside of it. I pick it up on my belated way to the kitchen and put the glass numbly in the dishwasher. I fell asleep during the movie, strangely enough, and now most everyone has gone off to bed. Looking about for Maitimo, I spot Fëanáro and Makalaurë who have hung back in the living room. Makalaurë stands near his father, facing him. They are almost the same height, I note, but Makalaurë has to tilt his head back just a little to look into his father's eyes. Fëanáro has his arms about him loosely, but it is not an embrace. Neither speaks.

Minutes pass and nothing is spoken; I remain rooted to my spot, hidden in the shadows of the dark kitchen. I do not even remembering noticing when the others left, when the lights had been turned out. My back is to the counter, and I can lean against it if I put my hands behind me. It feels too hard.

'Makalaurë,' Fëanáro says finally, his voice almost too low to make out. 'There is a reason that you were given that name.'

Makalaurë bows his head, accepting this in silence. He raises his head again to let his father kiss his brow.

'I never wanted to loose you,' he says, drawing his hands for a moment through my cousin's loose hair, then smoothing it back into place over his head. 'I would not have been a good father if that is what I wanted.'

Again Makalaurë says nothing; he bows his head lower this time and raises it more slowly.

Fëanáro kisses him between the eyes, his arms drawing his son closer. 'But I see now that you wish to be lost to us. Or at least you wish to depart. You have found something that you want badly; you have found something that wants you.'

Makalaurë bows his head a third time, and his father kisses his nose when he raises it. But my cousin keeps his eyes closed.

'You are a great singer, my son. Greater than any I have ever heard before, or that I should hope to hear since. Your voice is your strength, and strength is in your voice. It is a tool that you have shaped and forged over the years of your life, through tears and frustrations. But it has given you triumphs you never knew you could achieve, and joys you never knew existed. It is a gift, Makalaurë. And one that I expect you to use.'

Makalaurë bows his head for the fourth time, but his father will not let him finish the bow. He takes his head between his hands and lifts his face to him. Staring straight into his eyes, he speaks. 'For you have the world's greatest voice and the world shall hear it – _must _hear it. And if that means that you must leave us, then so be it. Go to New York, my son, with my blessing.' With that, he draws his son's face close to his and presses a kiss onto his lips as seconds pass away in utter silence. Finally he leans back, brushes Makalaurë's hair off his face, and smiles. 'I love you, my little singing boy.'

New York. And so he would leave us. I stifle back a cry as, without warning, Makalaurë collapses into his father's arms and starts to weep, his body shaking with the tears. 'I'm sorry,' he sobs. 'I'm so sorry, Father.'

'You don't have to apologize,' says Fëanáro, stroking his hair, his back. 'I'm not angry with you.'

'I'll send you some money, just as soon as I get it,' he says. 'I don't want to leave you.' He clings to him tighter, as if he somehow believes that his body could dissolve into Fëanáro's, keeping him close to him forever.

'I know you will,' Fëanáro answers. 'I know you don't.' He rocks him back and forth as if he were still a young child, touching his hair.

I no longer have the heart to watch them. Somehow it seems too private a moment to intrude upon, and I creep as silently from the kitchen as I can, cursing the rusted hinges of the hall door and the creaking stairs.

Without a word or a thought I make my way to my room where I quickly disrobe and work to get the braids out of my hair. But my hands shake too much to release my hair without tugging and pulling, and I have to bite my lip to stay silent. Findaráto turns over slowly in his bed, bumping against Artaher who pushes him away. Finished with the unplaiting, I run my fingers through my hair a few times to rid it of any stray tangles, snatch up my brush, decide against it, put it back down. Shivering I cross the room to my bed, where Angaráto and Aikanáro lie sprawled almost diagonally across the mattress. I bend down to move them over so that I will have some room to slide in beside them, but stop.

I can hear Maitimo whispering to himself on his bed, and when I turn I see him lying there, holding tightly to a pillow. Hesitantly I walk over to him. He is asleep, talking to himself as he sleeps. I lie down beside him, and as his arms instinctively close about me, he whispers a name. 'Kano.'

I do not wake him.


	19. Chapter 19

_Maitimo_

)()()()()()()()()(

My brother could not have picked a worse Christmas present for me. I can still see his face, eyes shining, lips quivering, as he explained to me gently that he was going to go. _Go where?_ I had asked him even after he had already told me. He had to repeat his story a second time, and even then I did not fully understand. I still do not. My little brother is trying to run away from us, telling me that it will be for the best in the end. He had a good offer; he could sing again. How he has missed singing, my Makalaurë. Not just the singing that he does at home for his family or at school for his teachers, but the long, strong, heartbreaking singing when he performs for strangers, his whole body living, as he once put it.

School. He is going to drop out. He told me that quite firmly, shaking his head when I began to protest. He knows somehow that it is not for him, nor will it ever be. School is not what he wants. He dismissed my arguments about reading notes. He does not need to read their notes to sing, he told me. He will have a pianist; he can play the songs. He was very determined on that point. I tried a thousand other arguments, but he somehow always managed to turn them down, refute them, prove their fallacies. My little brother should not be able to disprove my logic, unless I was not using logic. That is quite possible.

My mother would not agree to deny him permission to leave; my father would not agree to lock him up, to chain him, to keep him safe with us forever. He is old enough to go out on his own, they say. They do not understand that I am the best judge of that, not they. I know my little brother.

He was my first baby.

)()()()()()()()(

'Why did your brother say yes?' I ask Ñolofinwë, walking into the bathroom where he stands, by the sink, washing his hands.

He picks up the red towel and slowly rubs his hands dry. Red is not a good towel colour; is to bold, too bloody. Carefully he hangs the towel back up. 'Should he have said no?'

'Yes.' I close the door behind me and turn the lock, standing in front of it.

'You would have preferred it?' He raises his eyebrows slightly as he asks the question, but not mockingly, watching my face with a gentle pity.

'Yes, of course I would have,' I answer; it is funny how soft my voice sounds. But Ñolofinwë does that to me; he lowers my voice, softens my heart, either from how strong and fearless he looks where he stands or from the pained, frightened look in his eyes that makes me wish I will never hurt him. I do not know which.

'Because you do not want to loose him?' He sits down on the closed toilet, gesturing with his left hand to the edge of the tub.

I do not sit down. 'Of course not. Is there something wrong with that?' My voice does not sound as angry as I should like; indeed, it sounds even softer than before, almost as if I will start crying.

'No, there is nothing wrong with that. You would be a cruel brother if you wished to get rid of him.' He twists some strands of his hair between his fingers, studying the ends, avoiding my eyes.

I tilt my chin up firmly. 'You were there.'

'I know.' He drops the hair he was playing with and stands again, starting to unbutton his black shirt.

It is not often that I see him dressed in black; he normally wears some variation of blue, mellow or strong, which brings out the blue specks that spiral like a storm in his bright grey eyes. Black makes him look weaker, like some shadow that is slowly fading away from the rest of the world, unable to face the doom that forever haunts it.

He hangs the shirt on the towel rack, smoothing the black folds out with his long fingers, almost afraid of his own touch. His back is to me now, smooth and white, marked by a small, disconcerted bruise on the right shoulder, dull grey. I reach out to touch it, but drop my hand down at the last moment, afraid.

I can see his face in the mirror and mine as well, a ghastly reflection of unruly red hair about a sharp pale face, almost too thin and proud, large grey eyes that tremble with tears.

'He asked me what I thought,' he says, reading the question I want to ask him on my still lips. 'If I thought your brother would…' His smile is a sad one. 'I only told him what I believed.'

'And that was?' My voice has finally the edge that I was trying for, the sharp, cold edge of a wronged man. I set my jaw against his answer, but he keeps his back to me.

'That he would be safer here.' Turning the faucet on, he splashes some of the cold water onto his face and draws the icy droplets down his neck to his chest, strong and bare, so bare.

'Is that what you told him?'

He cups the freezing water in his hands and throws it across his face, down his body, up his arms, shivering. 'Yes.' He looks up again, and I can see his sharp face reflected in the mirror; there are tears in his eyes. 'Yes, Nelyo.'

'And he said?'

'That I was wrong.' He turns the faucet off, leaning over the sink in silence. His eyes are closed, and he breathes slowly.

I am still there, in the mirror, behind him; my face has lost all its colour; the tears have spilled over, cascading without understanding down my cheeks, trailing down my chin or to my full, quivering lips. My body is lost in the black shirt I wear. Startled, I turn away from the mirror.

Every word that I could say sounds useless at the time. _I am sorry. You weren't. You should have fought harder. I hate you. _I cannot break this silence; this cold, heartless silence that clings to me like the blasted, freezing water clings to Ñolofinwë's skin. Why does he not use the hot water? Why does his son not? Findekáno should. It is not right.

'Nelyo. Nelyo.' Arms enfold me; fingers lift my hair; the bitter silence I was lost in is broken by his strong voice. 'Do not cry so hard.' He presses his mouth against my temple, holding me tighter than he ever has before. Whispering words to me that I can scarcely make out, he rocks me, not turning me about, wiping away my tears. I keep my eyes closed, my head down; I do not embrace him, but he does not let me go.

)()()()()()()()(

'I'm sorry.'

'I know.'

Makalaurë sits down beside me, not touching me, his eyes lowered. 'Are you angry?'

'No.'

The clock is too loud; stealing the time with each tick, the hands move, wandering almost aimlessly across the face. The sound covers our breathing, the slight creak of Arafinwë's bed as my brother shifts nervously. I wonder how he found me here, where I was hiding. He sits so timidly now, his head bent, frowning.

I could ask him what he is singing in, even if he already told me; it could start a conversation, or it could just fade away to nothing after a few quick exchanges, leaving us to think of something else to say. But why must I think this now? We never had to speak before.

Light falls into the room from behind the blinds, casting slats onto the walls and across the floor. He is sitting in a pool of cut light, fingers stretched across the knees of his dark pants.

'_Father, why does he sing like that?'_

_My father had turned, pulling his hair free, brushing the sweat from his face. 'Who?' he had asked._

'_My brother,' I had answered, breathless from running. 'Why does he sing like that? Always and always, never stopping. My brother, why does he sing?'_

'_He is a singer, Nelyo; surely you know that. He sings because he has to.'_

'_Like you have to smith? Like you have to learn? Will he be a singer?'_

'_He is a singer.' My father had smiled, not understanding my question._

'_Always and always? Never stopping?' I had repeated, my voice beginning to fade._

'_Yes, of course.' My father had paused, musing over the words, thinking of something that I could not read in his eyes. 'Always and always, until the end of the world.'_

Somewhere below us I can make out Ñolofinwë and my father arguing; their voices tense, and their words hard. I can hear Carnistir as well, near to tears he will never shed.

'It isn't very far,' Makalaurë says. 'You will be able to visit me. And I won't be gone forever. I'll come back, when the show is over, I'll come back.' He lifts his head, brushing his smooth, dark hair back behind his ear. His fingers are so long.

I take his hand before he can lower it, holding it to his cheek. 'And when they have another show for you to do? When they realize that you are the best singer they have ever heard, are you coming back then? When they beg you to stay and offer you money and fame, will you come back then? When they offer you the world, will you come back to me?'

He smiles, pulling on my hair. 'Of course, Russandol.'

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: This story will probably not be updated next Friday due to my rather busy schedule.<em>


	20. Chapter 20

Maitimo

)()()()()()()()(

I measure the time by the dripping of the coffee into the pot; I do not move. The table is crowded before me, and the plates and dishes watch me apathetically from underneath their scattered crumbs, distant beneath the cracked light fixture. The glass of wine in my hands is drained, only a small ring of red remains on the bottom, creeping its stained path up the side to the smeared rim. Casting my head back, I look to the ceiling where a ladybug is buzzing helplessly around a light bulb. Unwilling, my voice catches in my throat, and with nothing to say, I close my lips and listen to the slowly dying ladybug.

'It has been so long.'

My mother sits down at the table across from me, drawing my empty glass to her, taking it from my hand to replace it with her fingers, running them across my palm and closing them gently around my hand. 'It has been so long,' she whispers again.

_Since what?_ I ask the ladybug, swallowing the question before my mother can hear it. I squeeze her hand, fingering the calluses that years of work have formed.

'He did not mean to bring us here,' she says, letting her voice sink into the silence.

As I try not to cry, I smile. She brushes the corner of my mouth with her thumb. 'He thinks he might bring us back someday.'

'That's nice.' Finding their way to my heart, my fingers press as tight as they can, clutching my shirt and skin; my breath has stopped.

'It would be the same way, dearest. The same way as before.' She touches my hair. 'He says that he could make it back, if it were the same way as before.'

Does she mean that the sky would have to be bright, and Father would have to be angry, and Finwë would have to be missing, and I would have to be singing, and Ñolofinwë would have to be crying somewhere inside of him that no one could see? I wonder. Does she mean that Father would have to close his fist so tightly that I could swear his fingers will break? That is how it was last time.

'Do you mean the light?' I ask instead, turning my face from her caring hand.

'Yes, the light. He would need a power as great as that again.'

'Laurelin is not here.' The ladybug has found its way inside the glass cover over the light bulb; it flies there, falling helplessly against the glass again and again, clattering.

'No, but there are other sources of power.' She touches my bare foot with her socked one, tapping my toes.

The ladybug hits the glass again and lies stunned for the moment. 'Yes.'

'He was so foolish, my Fëanáro,' she whispers to herself. 'He thought that, for certain, he could bring his father to him.'

Because Finwë was not there. If my grandfather had been there, my father would not have been so angry. He would not have declared it a spite against him, made on Ñolofinwë's part. He would not have tried. 'He wasn't.'

'He was.'

The ladybug has gotten up again, whizzing about the bulb, trying to kill itself. Is its life so hard that it wants to destroy it for that single instance of becoming one with the light? Is it so afraid of facing another day that may not have the glory of this moment that it is willing to give up everything so that the memory, the time, the _feeling_ will not fade? I wonder. It falls down again, down into the dust that has collected with the days.

'He thought it would work.' I take up a knife and run it across my hand; the blade is trying to find a way under my skin.

She takes the knife from me, setting it down firmly on a plate so that they both clatter together, shaking with their dirt and grime, like a thousand dying ladybugs. 'He should have waited for his father.'

'He did not think he was coming!' I turn to her, my eyes starting wide. My mouth aches from the words, and my teeth are set. 'Finwë said he would be there; the fault lies on him.'

Her face is drained; she looks so tired. Falling from its braid, her hair trails about her face, brushing with her cheeks, caught against her lips. 'He did not blame him.'

'So he blamed Ñolofinwë. What does it matter? It may have been Ñolofinwë's fault for all I can tell.' I push my chair away from her. 'My father only did what he thought was right.'

She brushes her hair away from her mouth, straightens it back behind her ears, wets her lips, closes her eyes, and says nothing.

'Is that what you wanted him to do?'

Without opening her eyes, she answers. 'Yes. I wanted him to do nothing about it. I wanted him to sit down and eat something and try to enjoy his brothers' company. Was it so very much to ask?'

'Yes.' I stand, my hands splayed across the tabletop; they look so weak and white against the dark wood. 'That would ask him to go against his very nature. Finwë promised that he would be there, that was the only reason Father agreed to come. And when he didn't…'

'Your father tried to change the course of time?' She opens her eyes now, looking up at me with a calm face that I cannot read. She smiles. 'Or rather he tried to take a place and a place and put them together so that there was no time between them. And instead of bringing his father there, he brought all of us here.'

'It was not his fault!'

The ladybug buzzes against the glass, trying to find a way out. It does not know to fly up and then down; it does not know that the only way to escape the heat is to go to it. It cannot reason.

'You are so much like him.'

No. I am not. I am nothing like him. I do not have his mind and his hands and his drive and his fire spirit that burns like _everything._ Why does everyone insist on trying to tie to me to him so that I have to stand bright and strong and brave like him, burning with a fire that no one and nothing could ever understand?

'Yes.'

She touches my hair, runs her finger over my nose, against my lips, down the side of my cheek.

'Am I such a disappointment to you?'

Brushing the tear from my eye, she shakes her head. 'How many times do I have to tell you I love, Russandol?'

Always and forever. She must repeat the words every day, whisper them to me whenever I chance to look at her.

'I know.' Her smile is gentle.

And I am nothing like her as well. I have not her tempered spirit and quiet ways, her patience, her smile, her blue-grey eyes.

_Makalaurë stood beside me, his legs titled to stand on the stones. _

'_What nonsense do you speak of?' he laughed as the sea wind forced his hair across his face and plastered his cream coat to his body._

'_It is not nonsense, brother mine.' _

_I had wanted to take his slim, still growing body into my arms and hold it there forever against me – to protect him from the wind, so I would not have to see his smile._

_He laughed when I reached out to him, and sprang away on the stones. 'Catch me!' he teased, tossing his head so his dark hair flew about it, flashing like waves in the light. 'Catch me, nonsense-speaker and may you leave your delusions behind!'_

_With another laugh, he started off, dancing on the large stones away from me. He would spin back to laugh at me as I followed, unable to match his pace. My little brother was always so fast._

'_Kano!' I cried after him. 'Kano, wait!'_

_And he stopped to turn back to me, surprised by the urgency of my voice. _

_'Is it really nonsense?' I whispered, 'Do I really belong here?' But the wind carried my voice away._

'I love you, Mother.'

Again she smiles and enfolds me in her arms, her hands firm on my back, and her face pressed to the side of my neck. Burying my face in her warm, sweet-smelling hair, I feel tears burn at my eyes, but they do not fall. Contentedly, she sighs and holds me closer. So we embrace and stand in silence; the ladybug has died.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: Sorry this took so very long to update. I got busy with packing and school and travelling and adjusting and taking care of a baby. And then I got very sick, and I was sick all weekend last, and this weekend I went to visit one of my mother's friends, and I also had a history finals. And I was also rather weary of publishing this chapter, because, truth be told, I'm terrified of Nerdanel fans, and I didn't know if I could make her act right.<em>

_So sorry again, but at least you now know how they got here._


	21. Chapter 21

Epilogue

_Makalaurë_

)()()()()()()()(

The blinds are closed to the world, but I, awake and lonely, open them with a twist of a small plastic wand, almost like some silly magic that I have seen in a passing show designed to entertain children. Outside the window, the city lies white and busy filled with lights and snow and people that fight against each other to find space in the crowded streets. Shadows dance, live, and are consumed; light reflects and shatters; absorbed, it is gone; pedestrians tousle against each other, still awake in the night, angry and frustrated, laughing and glad, they walk in groups together. But I stand alone.

And so I have left behind my family to pursue a dream I scarcely knew I had. The silence of this room is a strangeness when I compare it to the rehearsals I must now attend, learning notes and lines to songs whose meanings I barely understand, but they are beautiful, so I need not complain. It is a strangeness when I compare it to my dreams, crowded nightmares that fall and trip over each other in their eagerness to exist. It is a strangeness when I compare it to my family, talking always about this and that one to the other in quick, fresh Quenya, deep and musical – a language I miss. I promised my mother to call every day, and that is the only time when I hear our language, a comfort to me.

I have heard that all is well at home, and that none have serious problems with school, even if Aikanáro still despises it. Although he does not often talk to me, I heard from Tyelkormo yesterday, who assured me that he was behaving himself and that he will find a place for himself in this strange world as a dog-whisperer, and then he only laughed and would not tell me what that was. They tell me of their problems, they tell me of their joys, and, most of all, they tell me not to worry, and to do well.

The snow is falling now, quivering in the air as it searches for a place to land. Alone, I stand in my small room, barefoot on a grey carpet, warm in a dark sweater; a mug of tea, already cool and almost empty, rests in front of me on the windowsill. The clock reads 11:27, but I do not really need to look at it; the day is done, and I am still not tired; the nights and days are so short; together they run in my mind until I forget which one I have lived through and which one I am going to face. Just now, it does not seem to matter, and I know that must mean that I have found some peace that I cannot put words to. What will happen in the future is vague, but the future is long, and I have this moment.

So I sing as the snow falls.


End file.
